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9 


BY MYRTLE REED 


LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN 

LATER LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN 

THE SPINSTER BOOK 

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE 

PICKABACK SONGS 

THE SHADOW OF VICTORY 

THE MASTER’S VIOLIN 

THE BOOK OF CLEVER BEASTS 

AT THE SIGN OF THE JACK-o’-LANTERN 

A SPINNER IN THE SUN 

LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN 

FLOWER OF THE DUSK 

OLD ROSE AND SILVER 

MASTER OF THE VINEYARD 

A WEAVER OF DREAMS 

THE WHITE SHIELD 

SONNETS TO A LOVER 

THE MYRTLE REED YEAR BOOK 

THREADS OF GREY AND GOLD 







George Washington and Martha Custis 

From a drawing by Clara M. Burd 











giteuD biUibM imB noljnirizBW a§io9£) 

biufl .M £ifilO y<J ^niwiiib £ moT^ 




















THREADS OP GREY 
AND GOLD 


By MYRTLE REED 



G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
New York and London 
Zbc Umicfeerbocfeer press 
1913 


t 



V 

In Memory of 

A WEAVER OF DREAMS. 

A tribute to Myrtle Reed in recognition of her beautiful and 
valuable contributions to English literature. 

A S the spinner of silk weaves his sunbeams of gold, 
Blending sunset and dawn in its silvery fold, 

So she wove in the woof of her wonderful words 

The soft shimmer of sunshine and music of birds. 

With the radiance of moonlight and perfume of flowers. 
She lent charm to the springtime and gladdened the 
hours. 

She spoke cheer to the suffering, joy to the sad; 

She gave rest to the weary, macjg the sorrowful glad. 
The sweet touch of her sympathy soothed every pain, 
And her words in the drouth were like showers of rain. 
For she lovingly poured out her blessings in streams 

As a fountain of waters — a weaver of dreams. 

Her bright smiles were bejewelled, her tears were em- 
pearled, 

And her thoughts were as stars giving light to the world; 
Her fond dreams were the gems that were woven in gold, 
And the fabric she wrought was of value untold. 

Every colour of beauty was radiantly bright, 

Blending faith, hope, and love in its opaline light. 

And she wove in her woof the great wealth of her heart, 
For the cord of her life gave the life to each part; 

And the beauty she wrought, which gave life to the 
whole, 

Was her spirit made real — she gave of her soul. 

So the World built a temple — a glorious shrine — 

A Taj Mahal of love to the woman divine. 

ADDISON BLAKELY. 

m Utibutc 





































































































































































































































vii 

jebttorial note 

'T'HE Editor desires to make grateful 
* acknowledgment to the editors and 

publishers of the several periodicals in 
which the papers contained in this volume 
were first brought into print, for their 
friendly courtesy in permitting the collec- 
tion of these papers for preservation in 
book form. 

Chicago, 

January , ip/J. 

editorial 

“Rote 










Contents 

How the World Watches the New 


Year Come In . . . .3 

The Two Years. (Poem) . . 23 

The Courtship of George 

Washington .... 26 

The Old and the New. (Poem) 44 

The Love Story of “The Sage of 

Monticello” .... 46 

Columbia. (Poem) .... 59 

Story of a Daughter’s Love . . 60 

The Sea Voice. (Poem) ... 75 

Mystery of Randolph’s Courtship 77 

How President Jackson Won His 

Wife 91 

The Bachelor President’s Loyalty 

to a Memory 105 

Decoration Day. (Poem) . 118 


X 

Contents 


Content* 

Romance of Lincoln’s Life 

PAGE 

119 


Silent Thanksgiving. (Poem) 

135 


In the Flash of a Jewel 

137 


The Coming of My Ship. (Poem) . 

156 


Romance and the Postman 

158 


A Summer Reverie. (Poem) . 

171 


A Vignette ..... 

172 


Meditation. (Poem) 

175 


Pointers for the Lords of Creation 

176 


Transition. (Poem) 

187 


The Superiority of Man 

189 


The Year of My Heart. (Poem) . 

196 


The Average Man .... 

197 


The Book of Love. (Poem) . 

202 


The Ideal Man .... 

204 


Good-Night, Sweetheart. (Poem) . 

209 


The Ideal Woman .... 

21 1 


She Is Not Fair. (Poem) 

220 


The Fin-de Siecle Woman 

232 


Contents 


xi 

The Moon Maiden. (Poem) . 

PAGE 

229 

Contents 

Her Son’s Wife .... 

230 


A Lullaby. (Poem) 

247 


The Dressing-Sack Habit 

248 


In the Meadow. (Poem) 

259 


One Woman’s Solution of the 
Servant Problem 

260 


To a Violin. (Poem) 

283 


The Old Maid .... 

284 


The Spinster’s Rubaiyat. (Poem) . 

291 


The Rights of Dogs 

293 


Twilight. (Poem) .... 

298 


Women’s Clothes in Men’s Books . 

299 


Maidens of the Sea. (Poem) 

320 


Technique of the Short Story 

321 


To Dorothy. (Poem) 

333 


Writing a Book .... 

334 


The Man Behind the Gun. (Poem) 

355 


Quaint Old Christmas Customs 

357 


Consecration. (Poem) . 

37i 

















. 








































































. 





























/ 





- 












Ibow tbe TKHorlb UWatcbes tbe 
IRew |)eac Come fln 







3 

Ibow tbe Morlt> Matches tbe 
flew H?ear dome Un 

'"PHE proverbial “ good resolutions ” of 
* the first of January which are usually 
forgotten the next day, the watch services 
in the churches, and the tin horns in the 
city streets, are about the only formali- 
ties connected with the American New 
Year. The Pilgrim fathers took no note 
of the day, save in this prosaic record: 
“We went to work betimes”; but one 
Judge Sewall writes with no small pride 
of the blast of trumpets which was sounded 
under his window, on the morning of 
January 1st, 1697. 

He celebrated the opening of the eight- 
eenth century with a very bad poem 
which he wrote himself, and he hired the 
bellman to recite the poem loudly through 
the streets of the town of Boston; but 

t>ow tbe 

Matches 

tbe 

Hew ©ear 
Come In 


4 

Matching tbe IRew Jj)eac Hn 

l3ow tbe 
THUorfo 
Uflatcbee 
tbe 

•fftew Kear 
Come "ffn 

happily for a public, even now too much 
wearied with minor poets, the custom 
did not become general. 

In Scotland and the North of England 
the New Year festivities are of great 
importance. Weeks before hand, the 
village boys, with great secrecy, meet in 
out of the way places and rehearse their 
favourite songs and ballads. As the time 
draws near, they don improvised masks 
and go about from door to door, singing 
and cutting many quaint capers. The 
thirty-first of December is called “ Hog- 
manay, ” and the children are told that 
if they go to the comer, they will see a man 
with as many eyes as the year has days. 
The children of the poorer classes go from 
house to house in the better districts, with 
a large pocket fastened to their dresses, or 
a large shawl with a fold in front. 

Each one receives an oaten cake, a 
piece of cheese, or sometimes a sweet cake, 
and goes home at night heavily laden 
with a good supply of homely New Year 
cheer for the rest of the family. 


■TOlatcbtnfl tbe Hew ]£>ear in 

5 

The Scottish elders celebrate the day 
with a supper party, and as the clock strikes 
twelve, friend greets friend and wishes him 
“a gude New Year and mony o’ them.” 

Then with great formality the door is 
unbarred to let the Old Year out and the 
New Year in, while all the guests sally 
forth into the streets to “first foot” 
their acquaintances. 

The “first foot” is the first person to 
enter a house after midnight of December 
31st. If he is a dark man, it is considered 
an omen of good fortune. Women gener- 
ally are thought to bring ill luck, and in 
some parts of England a light-haired man, 
or a light-haired, flat-footed man is pre- 
ferred. In Durham, this person must 
bring a piece of coal, a piece of iron, 
and a bottle of whiskey. He gives a 
glass of whiskey to each man and kisses 
each woman. 

In Edinburgh, a great crowd gathers 
around the church in Hunter Square and 
anxiously watches the clock. There is 
absolute silence from the first stroke of 

Row tbe 
Uflotlb 
THHatcbes 
tbe 

Rew H?ear 
Come In 


6 

MarcWng tbe Hew gear In 

tww tbe 
Uflorlb 
IClatcbes 
tbe 

-new Bear 
Come In 

twelve until the last, then the elders go 
to bed, but the young folks have other 
business on hand. Each girl expects the 
“first foot” from her sweetheart and 
there is occasionally much stratagem 
displayed in outwitting him and arranging 
to have some grandmother or serving 
maid open the door for him. 

During the last century, all work was 
laid aside on the afternoon of the thirty- 
first, and the men of the hamlet went to 
the woods and brought home a lot of 
juniper bushes. Each household also 
procured a pitcher of water from “the 
dead and living ford, ” meaning a ford in 
the river by which passengers and funerals 
crossed. This was brought in perfect 
silence and was not allowed to touch the 
ground in its progress as contact with 
the earth would have destroyed the charm. 

The next morning, there were rites to 
protect the household against witchcraft, 
the evil eye, and other machinations of 
his satanic majesty. The father rose 
first, and, taking the charmed water and 


Matching the Hew fear ifn 

7 

a brush, treated the whole family to a 
generous sprinkling, which was usually 
acknowledged with anything but gratitude. 

Then all the doors and windows were 
closed, and the juniper boughs put on 
the fire. When the smoke reached a 
suffocating point, the fresh air was ad- 
mitted. The cattle were fumigated in 
the same way and the painful solemnities 
of the morning were over. 

The Scots on the first of the year 
consult the Bible before breakfast. They 
open it at random and lay a finger on a 
verse which is supposed to be, in some 
way, an augury for the coming year. 
If a lamp or a candle is taken out of the 
house on that day, some one will die 
during the year, and on New Year’s day 
a Scotchman will neither lend, borrow, 
nor give anything whatsoever out of his 
house, for fear his luck may go with it, 
and for the same reason the floor must not 
be swept. Even ashes or dirty water must „ 
not be thrown out until the next day, and 
if the fire goes out it is a sign of death. 

fjow tbc 
TKHorI& 
HUatcbes 
tbe 

Hew gear 
Come fit 


8 

Matching tbe Hew Ji>ear An 

•fcow tbe 
Tidorlb 
UUatcbcs 
tbe 

•Rew JtJear 
Come In 

The ancient Druids distributed among 
the early Britons branches of the sacred 
mistletoe, which had been cut with solemn 
ceremony in the night from the oak trees 
in a forest that had been dedicated to 
the gods. 

Among the ancient Saxons, the New 
Year was ushered in with friendly gifts, 
and all fighting ceased for three days. 

In Banffshire the peat fires are covered 
with ashes and smoothed down. In the 
morning they are examined closely, and 
if anything resembling a human foot- 
print is found in the ashes, it is taken as 
an omen. If the footprint points towards 
the door, one of the family will die or leave 
home during the year. If they point in- 
ward, a child will be bom within the year. 

In some parts of rural England, the 
village maidens go from door to door with 
a bowl of wassail, made of ale, roasted 
apples, squares of toast, nutmeg, and 
sugar. The bowl is elaborately decorated 
with evergreen and ribbons, and as they 
go they sing: 


TRUatcbfng tbe flew 13ear Un 

9 

“Wassail, wassail to our town, 

The cup is white and the ale is brown, 
The cup is made of the ashen tree, 

And so is the ale of the good barley. 

“Little maid, little maid, turn the pin, 

Open the door and let us in; 

God be there, God be here; 

I wish you all a Happy New Year.” 

In Yorkshire, the young men assemble 
at midnight on the thirty-first, blacken 
their faces, disguise themselves in other 
ways, then pass through the village with 
pieces of chalk. They write the date of 
the New Year on gates, doors, shutters, 
and wagons. It is considered lucky to 
have one’s property so marked and the 
revellers are never disturbed. 

On New Year’s Day, Henry VI received 
gifts of jewels, geese, turkeys, hens, and 
sweetmeats. “Good Queen Bess” was 
fairly overwhelmed with tokens of affec- 
tion from her subjects. One New Year’s 
morning, she was presented with caskets 
studded with gems, necklaces, bracelets, 
gowns, mantles, mirrors, fans, and a 

tbow tbe 
UHorlb 
UHatcbes 
tbe 

Hew leat 
Come fn 


10 

Xiaatcbinfl tbe mew J)ear fln 

fjow tbe 
TEdorlt 
WUtcbee 
tbe 

Hew linear 
Come In 

wonderful pair of black silk stockings, 
which pleased her so much that she never 
afterward wore any other kind. 

Among the Romans, after the reforma- 
tion of the calendar, the first day, and 
even the whole month, was dedicated to 
the worship of the god Janus. He was 
represented as having two faces, and 
looking two ways — into the past and into 
the future. In January they offered sac- 
rifices to Janus upon two altars, and on 
the first day of the month they were care- 
ful to regulate their speech and conduct, 
thinking it an augury for the coming year. 

New Year’s gifts and cards originated 
in Rome, and there is a record of an amus- 
ing lawsuit which grew out of the custom. 

A poet was commissioned by a Roman 
pastry-cook to write the mottoes for the 
New Year day bonbons. He agreed to 
supply five hundred couplets for six ses- 
terces, and though the poor poet toiled 
faithfully and the mottoes were used, the 
money was not forthcoming. He sued 
the pastry-cook, and got a verdict, but 


I 


Matcbln# tbe flew l?ear In 

ii 

the cook regarded himself as the injured 
party. Crackers were not then invented, 
but we still have the mottoes — those 
queer heart-shaped things which were 
the delight of our school-days. 

The Persians remember the day with 
gifts of eggs — literally a “lay out!” 

In rural Russia, the day begins as a 
children’s holiday. The village boys get 
up at sunrise and fill their pockets with 
peas and wheat. They go from house to 
house and as the doors are never locked, 
entrance is easy. They throw the peas 
upon their enemies and sprinkle the wheat 
softly upon their sleeping friends. 

After breakfast, the finest horse in the 
little town is decorated with evergreens 
and berries and led to the house of the 
greatest nobleman, followed by the pea 
and wheat shooters of the early morning. 
The lord admits both horse and people 
to his house, where the whole family is 
gathered, and the children of his household 
make presents of small pieces of silver 
money to those who come with the horse. 

twvc tbc 
tUorlfc 
XQUtcbe* 
tbe 

fkw UJtac 
Com* tn 


12 

TKIlatcbing tbe Bew ]i?ear In 

Dow tbc 
Worlb 
UGlatcbes 
t be 

flew ipear 
Com* In 

This is the greeting of the peasants to 
their lord and master. 

Next comes a procession of domestic 
animals, an ox, cow, goat, and pig, all 
decorated with evergreens and berries. 
These do not enter the house but pass 
slowly up and down outside, that the 
master and his family may see. Then 
the old women of the village bring barn- 
yard fowls to the master as presents, and 
these are left in the house which the horse 
has only recently vacated. Even the 
chickens are decorated with strings of 
berries around their necks and bits of 
evergreen fastened to their tails. 

The Russians have also a ceremony which 
is more agreeable. On each New Year’s 
Day, a pile of sheaves is heaped up over 
a large pile of grain, and the father, after 
seating himself behind it, asks the children 
if they can see him. They say they can- 
not, and he replies that he hopes the crops 
for the coming year will be so fine that 
he will be hidden in the fields. 

In the cities there is a grand celebration 


Matching tbe mew JJear In 

13 

of mass in the morning and the rest of 
the day is devoted to congratulatory visits. 
Good wishes which cannot be expressed in 
person are put into the newspapers in the 
form of advertisements, and in military and 
official circles ceremonial visits are paid. 

The Russians are very fond of fortune- 
telling, and on New Year’s eve the young 
ladies send their servants into the street 
to ask the names of the first person they 
meet, and many a bashful lover has 
hastened his suit by taking good care to 
be the first one who is met by the servant 
of his lady love. At midnight, each 
member of the family salutes every other 
member with a kiss, beginning with the 
head of the house, and then they retire, 
after gravely wishing each other a Happy 
New Year. 

Except that picturesque rake, Leopold 
of Belgium, every monarch of Europe 
has for many years begun the New Year 
with a solemn appeal to the Almighty, for 
strength, guidance, and blessing. 

The children in Belgium spend the day in 

Ibow tbe 
XHHorlD 
Uflatcbes 
tbe 

Hew HJear 
Come Hn 


H 

Matching tbe Hew ]£>ear fn 

1x>w tbe 
TMlorlb 
TElatcbc& 
tbe 

flew ©cat 
Came In 

trying to secure a ‘ ‘ sugar uncle ” or a 1 1 sugar 
aunt. ” The day before New Year, they 
gather up all the keys of the household 
and divide them. The unhappy mortal 
who is caught napping finds himself in a 
locked room, from which he is not released 
until a ransom is offered. This is usually 
money for sweets and is divided among 
the captors. 

In France, no one pays much attention 
to Christmas, but New Year’s day is 
a great festival and presents are freely 
exchanged. The President of France also 
holds a reception somewhat similar to, 
and possibly copied from, that which 
takes place in the White House. 

In Germany, complimentary visits are 
exchanged between the merest acquaint- 
ances, and New Year’s gifts are made 
to the servants. The night of the thirty- 
first is called Sylvester Aben and while 
many of the young people dance, the day 
in more serious households takes on a 
religious aspect. During the evening, 
there is prayer at the family altar, and at 



Matching tbe IRew U)ear Un 

15 

midnight the watchman on the church 
tower blows his horn to announce the 

birth of the New Year. 

At Frankfort-on-the-Main a very pretty 
custom is observed. On New Year’s eve 
the whole city keeps a festival with songs, 
feasting, games, and family parties in every 
house. When the great bell in the cathe- 
dral tolls the first stroke of midnight, every 
house opens wide its windows. People 
lean from the casements, glass in hand, and 
from a hundred thousand throats comes 
the cry: “Prosit Neujahr ! ” At the last 
stroke, the windows are closed and a mid- 
night hush descends upon the city 

The hospitable Norwegians and Swedes 
spread their tables heavily; for all who 
may come in at Stockholm there is a grand 
banquet at the Exchange, where the 
king meets his people in truly democratic 
fashion. 

The Danes greet the New Year with 
a tremendous volley of cannon, and at 
midnight old Copenhagen is shaken to its 
very foundations. It is considered a 

•fcow tbe 
HCtorlb 
UBatcbes 
tbe 

Hew Meat 
Come f n 


i6 

Ubrea&s of (Stas anfc ©olb 

TOlatcbtng 

tbc 

Hew ICear 

In 

delicate compliment to fire guns and 
pistols under the bedroom windows of 
one’s friends at dawn of the new morning. 

The dwellers in Cape Town, South 
Africa, are an exception to the general 
custom of English colonists, and after 
the manner of the early Dutch settlers 
they celebrate the New Year during the 
entire week. Every house is full of 
visitors, every man, woman, and child is 
dressed in gay garments, and no one has 
any business except pleasure. There are 
picnics to Table Mountain, and pleasure 
excursions in boats, with a dance every 
evening. At the end of the week, every- 
body settles down and the usual routine 
of life is resumed. 

In the Indian Empire, the day which 
corresponds to our New Year is called 
“Hooly” and is a feast in honour of the 
god Krishna. Caste temporarily loses 
ground and the prevailing colour is red. 

• Every one who can afford it wears red 
garments, red powder is thrown as if it 
were confetti , and streams of red water 


Matching tbe Hew Bear In 

1 7 

are thrown upon the passers-by. It is 
all taken in good part, however, as snow- 
balling is with us. 

Even “ farthest North, ” where the 
nights are six months long, there is recog- 
nition of the New Year. The Esquimaux 
come out of their snow huts and ice caves 
in pairs, one of each pair being dressed 
in women’s clothes. They gain entrance 
into every igloo in the village, moving 
silently and mysteriously. At last there 
is not a light left in the place, and having 
extinguished every fire they can find, 
they kindle a fresh one, going through in 
the meantime solemn ceremonies. From 
this one source, all the fires and lights in 
the district are kindled anew. 

One wonders if there may not be some 
fear in the breasts of these Children of 
the North, when for an instant they stand 
in the vastness of the midnight, utterly 
without fire or light. 

The most wonderful ceremonies con- 
nected with the New Year take place in 
China and Japan. In these countries and 

KDatcbing 

tbe 

flew lear 

In 


i8 

Tlbreabs of ©re? anb ®olt> 

TRUatcMng 

tbe 

Hew jgcar 
flit 

in Corea the birth of the year is considered 
the birthday of the whole community. 
When a child is born he is supposed to be 
a year old, and he remains thus until the 
changing seasons bring the annual birth- 
day of the whole Mongolian race, when 
another year is credited to his account. 

In the Chinese quarter of the large 
cities, the New Year celebrations are 
dreaded by the police, since where there 
is so much revelry there is sure to be* 
trouble. In the native country, the re- 
joicings absorb fully a month, during the 
first part of which no hunger is allowed 
to exist within the Empire. 

The refreshments are light in kind — 
peanuts, watermelon seeds, sweetmeats, 
oranges, tea and cakes. Presents of food 
are given to the poor, and “brilliant 
cakes,” supposed to help the children 
in their studies, are distributed from 
the temples. 

The poor little Chinamen must sadly 
need some assistance, in view of the fact 
that every word in their language has a 


XWlatcbmfl tbe Hew Jgeat flit 

19 

distinct root, and their alphabet contains 
over twenty thousand letters. 

At an early hour on New Year’s morning, 
which according to their calendar comes 
between the twenty -first of January and 
the nineteenth of February, they pro- 
pitiate heaven and earth with offerings of 
rice, vegetables, tea, wine, oranges, and 
imitation of paper money which they bum 
with incense, joss-sticks, and candles. 

Strips of scarlet paper, bearing mottoes, 
which look like Chinese laundry checks, 
are pasted around and over doors and 
windows. Blue strips among the red, 
mean that a death has occurred in the 
family since the last celebration. 

New Year’s calls are much in vogue in 
China, where every denizen of the Empire 
pays a visit to each of his superiors, and 
receives them from all of his inferiors. 
Sometimes cards are sent, and, as with 
us, this takes the place of a call. 

Images of gods are carried in procession 
to the beating of a deafening gong, and 
mandarins go by hundreds to the Emperor 

Matching 

tbe 

Hew ©eat- 

in 



20 

flbreabs of ©res anO ©olb 

TIDlatcMna 

tbe 

•flew Jl)ear 
fn 

and the Dowager Empress, with congrat- 
ulatory addresses. Their robes are gor- 
geously embroidered and are sometimes 
heavy with gold. After this, they worship 
their household gods. 

Illuminations and fireworks make the 
streets gorgeous at night, and a monstrous 
Chinese dragon, spouting flame, is drawn 
through the streets. 

People salute each other with cries of 
“Kung-hi! Kung-hi!” meaning I humbly 
wish you joy, or “Sin-hi! Sin-hi!” May 
joy be yours. 

Many amusements in the way of the- 
atricals and illumination are provided for 
the public. 

In both China and Japan, all debts must 
be paid and all grudges settled before the 
opening of the New Year. Every one is 
supposed to have new clothes for the oc- 
casion, and those who cannot obtain them 
remain hidden in their houses. 

In Japan, the conventional New Year 
costume is light blue cotton, and every 
one starts out to make calls. Letters 


Matching tbe ‘Mew Jt)ear tin 

21 

on rice paper are sent to those in distant 
places, conveying appropriate greetings. 

The Japanese also go to their favourite 
tea gardens where bands play, and wax 
figures are sold. Presents of cooked rice 
and roasted peas, oranges, and figs are 
offered to every one. The peas are 
scattered about the houses to frighten 
away the evil spirits, and on the fourth 
day of the New Year, the decorations of 
lobster, signifying reproduction, cabbages 
indicating riches, and oranges, meaning 
good luck, are taken down and replaced 
with boughs of fruit trees and flowers. 

Strange indeed is the country in which 
the milestones of Time pass unheeded. 
In spite of all the mirth and feasting, 
there is an undercurrent of sadness which 
has been most fitly expressed by Charles 
Lamb : 

Of all the sounds, the most solemn and 
touching is the peal which rings out the old 
year. I never hear it without gathering up 
in my mind a concentration of all the images 
that have been diffused over the past twelve 

UHatcbfna 

tbc 

flew U2ear 
An 



22 

Gbrea&s of (5reg anO ©olt> 

THlatcbind 

tbe 

Hew 13ear 

In 

months ; all that I have done or suffered, per- 
formed, or neglected, in that regretted time. 

I begin to know its worth as when a person 
dies. It takes a personal colour, nor was it 
a poetical flight in a contemporary, when he 
exclaimed : ‘ I saw the skirts of the departing 
year!’” 




23 

Ebe Cwo Bears 

'THREAD softly, ye throngs with hurry- 
1 ing feet, 

Look down, 0 ye stars, in your flight, 

And bid ye farewell to a time that was 
sweet, 

For the year lies a-dying to-night. 

In a shroud of pure snow lie the quickly- 
fled hours — 

The children of Time and of Light; 

Stoop down, ye fair moon, and scatter 
sweet flowers, 

For the year lies a-dying to-night. 

Hush, 0 ye rivers that sweep to the 
sea, 

From hill and from blue mountain 
height ; 

The flood of your song should be sorrow, 
not glee, 

For the year lies a-dying to-night. 

Zbc Cwo 
Bears 


24 

Ubreabs of ©teg anb Go lb 

Ube Ttwo 
i?ears 

Good night, and good-bye, dear, mellow, 
old year, 

The new is beginning to dawn. 

But we ’ll turn and drop on thy white 
grave a tear, 

For the sake of the friend that is gone. 


All hail to the New! He is coming with 
gladness, 

From the East, where in light he 
reposes ; 

He is bringing a year free from pain and 
from sadness, 

He is bringing a June with her roses. 


A burst of sweet music, the listeners hear, 

The stars and the angels give warn- 
ing— 

He is coming in beauty, this joyful New 
Year, 

O’er the flower-strewn stairs of the 
morning. 


He is bringing a day with glad pulses 
beating, 

For the sorrow and passion are gone, 

And Love and Life have a rapturous 
meeting 

In the rush and the gladness of dawn. 



Ube Ewo J?ears 

25 

The Old has gone out with a crown that 
is hoary, 

The New in his brightness draws near; 
Then let us look up in the light and the 
glory, 

And welcome this royal New Year. 

“Cbe TTwo 
Wears 


26 


Courtship 
of THlasba 
tngton 

Gbe Courtship of (Seorge 
TKflasbington 

HPHE quaint old steel engraving which 
* shows George and Martha Washing- 
ton sitting by a table, while the Custis 
children stand dutifully by, is a familiar 
picture in many households, yet few of us 
remember that the first Lady of the White 
House was not always first in the heart 
of her husband. 

The years have brought us, as a people, 
a growing reverence for him who was 
in truth the “Father of His Country.” 
Time has invested him with godlike at- 
tributes, yet, none the less, he was a man 
among men, and the hot blood of youth 
ran tumultuously in his veins. 

At the age of fifteen, like many another 
schoolboy, Washington fell in love. The 
man who was destined to be the Com- 



Courtship of Udasblngton 

27 

mander of the Revolutionary Army, wan- 
dered through the shady groves of Mount 
Vernon composing verses which, from a 
critical standpoint, were very bad. Scraps 
of verse were later mingled with notes 
of surveys, and interspersed with the 
accounts which that methodical statesman 
kept from his school-days until the year 
of his death. 

In the archives of the Capitol on a 
yellowed page, in Washington’s own 
handwriting, these lines are still to be 
read: 

“Oh, Ye Gods, why should my Poor 
Resistless Heart 

Stand to oppose thy might and Power, 

At last surrrender to Cupid’s feather’d 
Dart, 

And now lays bleeding every Hour 

For her that’s Pityless of my grief and 
Woes, 

And will not on me, pity take. 

I ’ll sleep amongst my most inveterate 
Foes, 

And with gladness never wish to wake. 

In deluding sleepings let my Eyelids 
close, 

Courtship 
of XU as be 
ington 


28 

XTbreabs of ©reg ant* ©olb 

Courtship 
of IUaab« 
ington 

That in an enraptured Dream I may 

In a soft lulling sleep and gentle repose 
Possess those joys denied by Day.” 


Among these boyish fragments there 
is also an incomplete acrostic, evidently 
intended for Miss Frances Alexander, 
which reads as follows: 


“ From your bright sparkling Eyes I was 
undone ; 

Rays, you have, rays more transparent 
than the Sun 

Amidst its glory in the rising Day; 

None can you equal in your bright array; 
Constant in your calm, unspotted Mind; 
Equal to all, but will to none Prove kind, 

So knowing, seldom one so young you ’ll 
Find. 


11 Ah, woe’s me that I should Love and 
conceal — 

Long have I wished, but never dare 
reveal, 

Even though severely Love’s Pains I 
feel; 

Xerxes that great wast not free from 
Cupid’s Dart, 

And all the greatest Heroes felt the 
smart.” 


(Eourtsbfp ot Masbtngton 

29 

He wrote at length to several of his 
friends concerning his youthful passions. 
In t e tell-tale pages of the diary, for 1748, 
there is this draft of a letter: 

Courtship 
of uaasba 
inaton 


“ Dear Friend Robin : My place of Resi- 
dence is at present at His Lordship’s where 

I might, was my heart disengag’d, pass my 
time very pleasantly, as there ’s a very 
agreeable Young Lady Lives in the same 
house (Col. George Fairfax’s Wife’s Sister); 
but as that ’s only adding fuel to fire, it makes 
me the more uneasy, for by often and un- 
avoidably being, in Company with her revives 
my former Passion for your Lowland Beauty; 
whereas was I to live more retired from 


young Women I might in some measure 
aliviate my sorrows by burying that chaste 
and troublesome Passion in the grave of 
oblivion or eternal forgetfulness, for as I am 
yery well assured, that ’s the only antidote 
or remedy, that I shall be relieved by, as 

I am well convinced, was I ever to ask any 
question, I should only get a denial which 
would be adding grief to uneasiness.” 


The “Lowland Beauty ” was Miss Mary 
Bland. Tradition does not say whether 
or not she ever knew of Washington’s 
admiration, but she married Henry Lee. 



30 

UbreaOs of (Bres anO <3olt> 

Courtabip 
of UHash* 
tngton 

“ Light Horse Harry,” that daring master 
of cavalry of Revolutionary fame, was 
the son of the “Lowland Beauty,” and 
some tender memories of the mother may 
have been mingled with Washington’s 
fondness for the young soldier. It was 
“Light Horse Harry” also, who said of 
the Commander-in-Chief that he was 
“first in war, first in peace, and first in 
the hearts of his countrymen!” 

By another trick of fate the grandson 
of the “Lowland Beauty” was Gen. 
Robert E. Lee. Who can say what 
momentous changes might have been 
wrought in history had Washington mar- 
ried his first love? 

Miss Cary, the sister of Mrs. Fairfax, 
was the “agreeable young lady” of whom 
he speaks. After a time her charm seems 
to have partially mitigated the pain he 
felt over the loss of her predecessor in 
his affections. Later he writes of a Miss 
Betsey Fauntleroy, saying that he is soon 
to see her, and that he “hopes for a re- 
vocation of her former cruel sentence. ” 



Courtship of Masblngton 

3i 

When Braddock’s defeat brought the 
soldier again to Mount Vernon, to rest 
from the fatigues of the campaign, there 
is abundant evidence to prove that he 
had become a personage in the eyes of 
women. For instance, Lord Fairfax 
writes to him, saying : 

“If a Satterday Night’s Rest cannot be 
sufficient to enable your coming hither to 
morrow, the Lady’s will try to get Horses to 
equip our Chair or attempt their strength on 
Foot to Salute you, so desirious are they 
with loving Speed to have an occular Demon- 
stration of your being the same identical 
Gent — that lately departed to defend his 
Country's Cause. ” 

A very feminine postcript was attached 
to this which read as follows : 

“Dear Sir 

“After thanking Heaven for your safe 
return, I must accuse you of great unkindness 
in refusing us the pleasure of seeing you this 
night. I do assure you nothing but our 
being satisfied that our company would be 
disagreeable, should prevent us from trying 
if our Legs would not carry us to Mount 

Courtship 
of TKHasb* 
ington 


32 

Ubreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Courtflbfp 
of "Cdaab* 
tngton 

Vernon this night, but if you will not come 
to us, tomorrow morning very early we shall 
be at Mount Vernon. 

“Sally Fairfax 

Ann Spearing 
Eliz’th Dent” 

Yet, in spite of the attractions of 
Virginia we find him journeying to Boston, 
on military business, by way of New 
York. 

The hero of Braddock’s stricken field 
found every door open before him. He 
was f&ted in Philadelphia, and the aris- 
tocrats of Manhattan gave dinners in 
honour of the strapping young soldier 
from the wilds of Virginia. 

At the house of his friend, Beverly 
Robinson, he met Miss Mary Philipse, 
and speedily surrendered. She was a 
beautiful, cultured woman, twenty-five 
years old, who had travelled widely and 
had seen much of the world. He promptly 
proposed to her, and was refused, but 
with exquisite grace and tact. 

Graver affairs however soon claimed his 


Courtship of Masbington 

33 

attention, and he did not go back, though 
a friend wrote to him that Lieutenant- 
Colonel Morris was besieging the citadel. 
She married Morris, and their house in 
Morristown became Washington’s head- 
quarters, in 1776 — again, how history 
might have been changed had Mary Phi- 
lipse married her Virginia lover ! 

In the spring of 1758, Washington met 
his fate. He was riding on horseback 
from Mount Vernon to Williamsburg 
with important despatches. In crossing 
a ford of the Pamunkey he fell in with a 
Mr. Chamberlayne, who lived in the 
neighbourhood. With true Virginian hos- 
pitality he prevailed upon Washington to 
take dinner at his house, making the 
arrangement with much difficulty, how- 
ever, since the soldier was impatient to 
get to Williamsburg. 

Once inside the colonial house, whose 
hospitable halls breathed welcome, his 
impatience, and the errand itself, were 
almost forgotten. A negro servant led his 
horse up and down the gravelled walk in 

Courtship 
of TKHasb= 
fnaton 


34 

Ubrea&s of ©res anb ©olb 

Courtship 

of THUaeb* 
Ington 

front of the house ; the servant grew tired, 
the horse pawed and sniffed with im- 
patience, but Washington lingered. 

A petite hazel-eyed woman — she who 
was once Patsy Dandridge, but then the 
widow of Daniel Parke Custis — was delay- 
ing important affairs. At night-fall the 
distracted warrior remembered his mission, 
and made a hasty adieu. Mr. Chamber- 
layne, meeting him at the door, laid a 
restraining hand upon his arm. “No 
guest ever leaves my house after sunset, ” 
he said. 

The horse was put up, the servant 
released from duty, and Washington re- 
mained until the next morning, when, 
with new happiness in his heart, he 
dashed on to Williamsburg. 

We may well fancy that her image was 
before him all the way. She had worn 
a gown of white dimity, with a cluster 
of Mayblossoms at her belt, and a little 
white widow’s cap half covered her soft 
brown hair. 

She was twenty-six, some three months 


Courtship of Washington 

35 

younger than Washington; she had wealth, 
and two children. Mr. Custis had been 
older than his Patsy, for she was married 
when she was but seventeen. He had 
been a faithful and affectionate husband, 
but he had not appealed to her imagination, 
and it was doubtless through her imagina- 
tion, that the big Virginia Colonel won 
her heart. 

She left Mr. Chamberlayne’s and went 
to her home — the “ White House” — near 
William’s Ferry. The story is that when 
Washington came from Williamsburg, he 
was met at the ferry by one of Mrs. 
Custis’s slaves. “Is your mistress at 
home?” he inquired of the negro who 
was rowing him across the river. 

“Yes, sah, ” replied the darkey, then 
added slyly, “I recon you am de man 
what am expected. ” 

It was late in the afternoon of the 
next day when Washington took his de- 
parture, but he had her promise and was 
happy. A ring was ordered from Phila- 
delphia, and is duly set down in his 

Court0b4> 
of UUasba 
fnoton 



36 

TOreaOs of (Breg ant) <Bolt> 

Courtship 
of HQlaebs 
tnaton 

accounts: “One engagement ring, two 
pounds, sixteen shillings. ” 

Then came weary months of service 
in the field, and they saw each other only 
four times before they were married. 
There were doubtless frequent letters, 
but only one of them remains. It is the 
letter of a soldier: 

“We have begun our march for the Ohio, 
[he wrote]. A courier is starting for Williams- 
burg, and I embrace the opportunity to send 
a few words to one whose life is now insep- 
arable from mine. 

“Since that happy hour, when we made our 
pledges to each other, my thoughts have 
been continually going to you as to another 
self. That an All-powerful Providence may 
keep us both in safety is the prayer of your 
ever faithful and affectionate Friend 

“ G. Washington 

“ 20 th of July 

Mrs. Martha Custis.” 

On the sixth of the following January 
they were married in the little church 
of St. Peter. Once again Dr. Mossum, 
in full canonicals, married “Patsy” Dan- 


Courtship ot' Washington 

37 

dridge to the man of her choice. The 
bridegroom wore a blue cloth coat lined 
with red silk and ornamented with silver 
trimmings. His vest was embroidered 
white satin, his shoe- and knee-buckles 
were of solid gold, his hair was powdered, 
and a dress sword hung at his side. 

The bride was attired in heavy brocaded 
white silk inwoven with a silver thread. 
She wore a white satin quilted petticoat 
with heavy corded white silk over-skirt, 
and high-heeled shoes of white satin with 
buckles of brilliants. She had ruffles of 
rich point lace, pearl necklace, ear-rings, 
and bracelets, and was attended by three 
bridesmaids. 

The aristocracy of Virginia was out in 
full force. One of the most imposing 
figures was Bishop, the negro servant, 
who had led Washington's horse up and 
down the gravelled path in front of Mr. 
Chamberlayne’s door while the master 
lingered within. He was in the scarlet 
uniform of King George's army, booted 
and spurred, and he held the bridle rein 

Courtship 
of TtUashs 
(ngton 



38 

XtbreaDs of ©res anC» ©olt» 

Courtship 
of TOlasb* 
ington 

of the chestnut charger that was forced 
to wait while his rider made love. 

On leaving the church, the bride and 
her maids rode back to the “White House ” 
in a coach drawn by six horses, and guided 
by black post-boys in livery, while Colonel 
Washington, on his magnificent horse, 
and attended by a brilliant company, 
rode by her side. 

There was no seer to predict that some 
time the little lady in white satin, brocade 
silk, and rich laces, would spend long hours 
knitting stockings for her husband’s army, 
and that night after night would find her, in 
a long grey cloak, at the side of the wounded, 
hearing from stiffening lips the husky whis- 
per, “God bless you, Lady Washington!” 

All through the troublous times that 
followed, Washington was the lover as 
well as the husband. He took a father’s 
place with the little children, treating 
them with affection, but never swerving 
from the path of justice. With the fond- 
ness of a lover, he ordered fine clothes 
for his wife from London. 


Courtship of Masbin^ton 

39 

After his death, Mrs. Washington de- 
stroyed all of his letters. There is only 
one of them to be found, which was writ- 
ten after their marriage. It is in an old 
book, printed in New York in 1796, when 
the narrow streets around the tall spire 
of Trinity were the centre of social life, 
and the busy hum of Wall Street was 
not to be heard for fifty years ! 

One may fancy a stately Knicker- 
bocker stopping at a little bookstall 
where the dizzy heights of the Empire 
Building now rise, or down near the 
Battery, untroubled by the white cliff 
called “The Bowling Green,” and asking 
pompously enough, for the Epistles; 
Domestic , Confidential , and Official , from 
General Washington . 

The pages are yellowed with age, 
and the “f” used in the place of the “s”, 
as well as the queer orthography and 
capitalisation, look strange to twentieth- 
century eyes, but on page 56 the lover- 
husband pleads with his lady in a way that 
we can well understand. 

Courtship 
of UHasb* 
fngton 



40 

XtbreaOs of ©res anO ©olb 

Courtship 
of TlClasbe 
ington 

The letter is dated “June 24, 1776,” 
and in part is as follows : 

“My Dearest Life and Love: — 

“You have hurt me, I know not how much, 
by the insinuation in your last, that my 
letters to you have been less frequent because 

I have felt less concern for you. 

“The suspicion is most unjust; may I not 
add, is most unkind. Have we lived, now 
almost a score of years, in the closest and 
dearest conjugal intimacy to so little pur- 
pose, that on the appearance only, of in- 
attention to you, and which you might have 
accounted for in a thousand ways more 
natural and more probable, you should pitch 
upon that single motive which is alone injuri- 
ous to me? 

“ I have not, I own, wrote so often to you as 

I wished and as I ought. 

“But think of my situation, and then ask 
your heart if I be without excuse ? 

“We are not, my dearest, in circumstances 
the most favorable to our happiness; but 
let us not, I beseech of you, make them worse 
by indulging suspicions and apprehensions 
which minds in distress are apt to give way to. 

“I never was, as you have often told me, 
even in my better and more disengaged 
days, so attentive to the little punctillios 
of friendship, as it may be, became me; but 


Courtship of Masbtngton 

4i 

my heart tells me, there never was a moment 
in my life, since I first knew you, in which it 
did not cleave and cling to you with the 
warmest affection; and it must cease to beat 
ere it can cease to wish for your happiness, 
above anything on earth. 

1 ‘ Y our faithful and tender husband, G . W. ’ ’ 

“ ’Seventy-six!” The words bring a 
thrill even now, yet, in the midst of those 
stirring times, not a fortnight before the 
Declaration was signed, and after twenty 
years of marriage, he could write her like 
this. Even his reproaches are gentle, and 
filled with great tenderness. 

And so it went on, through the Revolu- 
tion and through the stormy days in which 
the Republic was born. There were long 
and inevitable separations, yet a part of 
the time she was with him, doing her 
duty as a soldier’s wife, and sternly refusing 
to wear garments which were not woven 
in American looms. 

During the many years they lived at 
Mount Vernon, they attended divine 
service at Christ Church, Alexandria, 
Virginia, one of the quaint little landmarks 

Courtabfp 
of TOiasb* 
ington 



42 

flbreabs of ©c eg anb <Bolb 

Coartabfp 
of XUasb- 
(ngton 

of the town which is still standing. For 
a number of years he was a vestryman of 
the church, and the pew occupied by him 
is visited yearly by thousands of tourists 
while sight-seeing in the national Capitol. 
Indeed all the churches, so far as known, 
in which he once worshipped, have pre- 
served his pew intact, while there are 
hundreds of tablets, statues, and monu- 
ments throughout the country. 

In the magnificent monument at Wash- 
ington, rising to a height of more than 555 
feet, the various States of the Union have 
placed stone replicas of their State seals, 
and these, with other symbolic devices, 
constitute the inscriptions upon one hun- 
dred and seventy-nine of these memorial 
stones. Not only this, but Europe and 
Asia, China and Japan have honoured 
themselves by erecting memorials to the 
great American. 

When at last his long years of service 
for his country were ended, he and his 
beloved wife returned . again to their 
beautiful home at Mount Vernon, to wait 


Courtship of Washington 

43 

for the night together. The whole world 
knows how the end came, with her loving 
ministrations to the very last of the three 
restful years which they at this time spent 
together at the old home, and how he 
looked Death bravely in the face, as 
became a soldier and a Christian. 

Courtship 
Of TKHasb= 
fngtort 



44 


Jibe ©tt> 
an6 

Jibe Hew 

Gbe ©lb anb £be Hew 

RANDMOTHER sat at her spinning 
V_J wheel 

In the dust of the long ago, 

And listened, with scarlet dyeing her cheeks, 
For the step she had learned to know. 

A courtly lover, was he who came, 

With frill and ruffle and curl — 

They dressed so queerly in the days 

When grandmother was a girl ! 

“Knickerbockers” they called them then, 
When they spoke of the things at all — 
Grandfather wore them, buckled and 
trim, 

When he sallied forth to call. 
Grandmother’s eyes were youthful then — 

His “guiding stars,” he said; 

While she demurely watched her wheel 

And spun with a shining thread. 

Frill, and ruffle, and curl are gone, 

But the “knickers” are with us still — 

And so is love and the spinning wheel, 

But we ride it now — if you will ! 


TTbe ©lb anb Ube 'Hew 

45 

In grandfather’s “ knickers ” I sit and 
watch 

For the gleam of a lamp afar; 

And my heart still turns, as theirs, me- 
thinks, 

To my wheel and my guiding star. 

Cbe ©lb 
anb 

Zbe Hew 


46 


Ube Sage 
of fl&onti- 
cello 

$be Xovc 5ton> of tbc Sage of 
flbonticello 

A MERICAN history holds no more 
** beautiful love-story than that of 
Thomas Jefferson, third President of the 
United States, and author of the Declara- 
tion of Independence. It is a tale of single- 
hearted, unswerving devotion, worthy of 
this illustrious statesman. His love for 
his wife was not the firs{ outpouring of 
his nature, but it was the strongest and 
best — the love, not of the boy, but of the 

man. 

Jefferson was not particularly handsome 
as a young man, for he was red-haired, 
awkward, and knew not what to do with 
his hands, though he played the violin pass- 
ably well. But his friend, Patrick Henry, 
suave, tactful and popular, exerted himself 
to improve Jefferson’s manners and fit 



fEbe Sage of flDontlcello 

47 

him for general society, attaining at last 
very pleasing results, although there was 
a certain roughness in his nature, shown 
in his correspondence, which no amount 
of polishing seemed able to overcome. 

John Page was Jefferson’s closest friend, 
and to him he wrote very fully concerning 
the state of his mind and heart, and with 
a certain quaint, uncouth humour, which 
to this day is irresistible. 

For instance, at Fairfield, Christmas 
day, 1762, he wrote to his friend as follows : 

“Dear Page 

• “This very day, to others the day of greatest 
mirth and jolity, sees me overwhelmed with 
more and greater misfortunes than have 
befallen a descendant of Adam for these 
thousand years past, I am sure ; and perhaps, 
after excepting Job, since the creation of the 
world. 

“You must know, Dear Page, that I am now 
in a house surrounded by enemies, who take 
counsel together against my soul; and when 

I lay me down to rest, they say among them- 
selves, ‘ Come let us destroy him. ’ 

“I am sure if there is such a thing as a 
Devil in this world, he must have been here 

Cbe Sage 

Df /Conti* 
cello 



48 

TTforeafcs o t Gres ant) Goto 

Ube Sacie 
of Contis 
cello 

last night, and have had some hand in what 
happened to me. Do you think the cursed 
rats (at his instigation I suppose) did not eat 
up my pocket book, which was in my pocket, 
within an inch of my head? And not con- 
tented with plenty for the present, they 
carried away my gemmy worked silk garters, 
and half a dozen new minuets I had just got, 
to serve, I suppose, as provision for the winter. 

“You know it rained last night, or if you do 
not know it, I am sure I do. When I went 
to bed I laid my watch in the usual place, 
and going to take her up after I arose this 
morning, I found her in the same place, it 
is true, but all afloat in water, let in at a leak 
in the roof of the house, and as silent, and as 
still as the rats that had eaten my pocket 
book. 

“Now, you know if chance had anything to 
do in this matter, there were a thousand 
other spots where it might have chanced to 
leak as well as this one which was perpen- 
dicularly over my watch. But I ’ll tell 
you, it ’s my opinion that the Devil came and 
bored the hole over it on purpose. 

“Well, as I was saying, my poor watch had 
lost her speech. I would not have cared 
much for this, but something worse attended 
it — the subtle particles of water with which 
the case was filled had, by their penetration, 
so overcome the cohesion of the particles 


Ube Sage of flDontfcello 

49 

of the paper, of which my dear picture, and 
watch patch paper, were composed, that in 
attempting to take them out to dry them, 
my cursed fingers gave them such a rent as 

I fear I shall never get over. 

11 . . . And now, though her picture be 
defaced, there is so lively an image of her 
imprinted in my mind, that I shall think of 
her too often, I fear for my peace of mind; 
and too often I am sure to get through old 
Coke this winter, for I have not seen him 
since I packed him up in my trunk in 
Williamsburg. Well, Page, I do wish the 
Devil had old Coke for I am sure I never 
was so tired of the dull old scoundrel in my 
life. . . . 

“I would fain ask the favor of Miss Bettey 
Burwell to give me another watch paper 
of her own cutting, which I should esteem 
much more though it were a plain round one, 
than the nicest in the world cut by other 
hands; however I am afraid she would think 
this presumption, after my suffering the other 
to get spoiled. If you think you can excuse 
me to her for this, I should be glad if you 
would ask her. . . 

Page was a little older than Jefferson, 
and the young man thought much of his 
advice. Six months later we find Page 

TTbe Sage 

Of jQDontfe 
cello 


50 

Zlbreabs of ©rey an£> ©olb 

Ubc Sage 
of iftontl* 
cello 

advising him to go to Miss Rebecca 
Burwell and “lay siege in form.” 

There were many objections to this — 
first, the necessity of keeping the matter 
secret, and of “treating with a ward 
before obtaining the consent of her 
guardian,” which at that time was con- 
sidered dishonourable, and second, Jeffer- 
son’s own state of suspense and uneasiness, 
since the lady had given him no grounds 
for hope. 

“If I am to succeed [he wrote], the sooner 

I know it the less uneasiness I shall have 
to go through. If I am to meet with dis- 
appointment, the sooner I know it, the more 
of life I shall have to wear it off; and if I 
do meet with one, I hope and verily believe 
it will be the last. 

“I assure you that I almost envy you your 
present freedom and I assure you that if 
Belinda will not accept of my heart, it shall 
never be offered to another.” 

In his letters he habitually spoke of 
Miss Burwell as “Belinda,” presumably 
on account of the fear which he expresses 
to Page, that the letters might possibly 


Gbe Sage of flDonttcello 

5 i 

fall into other hands. In some of his 
letters he spells “Belinda” backward, and 
with exaggerated caution, in Greek letters. 

Finally, with much fear and trembling, 
he took his friend’s advice, and laid seige 
to the fair Rebecca in due form. The 
day afterward — October 7, 1763 — he con- 
fided in Page: 

‘ ‘ In the most melancholy fit that ever a poor 
soul was, I sit down to write you. Last 
night, as merry as agreeable company and 
dancing with Belinda could make me, I 
never could have thought that the succeeding 
sun would have seen me so wretched as I now 
am! 

“I was prepared to say a great deal. I had 
dressed up in my own mind, such thoughts 
as occurred to me, in as moving language 
as I knew how, and expected to have per- 
formed in a tolerably creditable manner. 
But . . . when I had an opportunity of 
venting them, a few broken sentences, 
uttered in great disorder, and interrupted 
by pauses of uncommon length were the 
too visible marks of my strange confusion! 

“The whole confab I will tell you, word for 
word if I can when I see you which God send, 
may be soon.” 

Cbc Sage 

of Aontte 
cello 


52 

ftbreabs of Greg anb Golb 

TTbc Sage 
of flDontt* 
cello 

After this, he dates his letters at “ Devils- 
burg, ” instead of Williamsburg, and says 
in one of them, “I believe I never told 
you that we had another occasion. ” This 
time he behaved more creditably, told 
“ Belinda’ ’ that it was necessary for him 
to go to England, explained the inevitable 
delays and told how he should conduct 
himself until his return. He says that 
he asked no questions which would admit 
of a categorical answer — there was some- 
thing of the lawyer in this wooing! He 
assured Miss Rebecca that such a question 
would one day be asked. In this letter 
she is called “Adinleb” and spoken of as 
“he.” 

Miss Burwell did not wait, however, 
until Jefferson was in a position to seek 
her hand openly, but was suddenly married 
to another. The news was a great shock 
to Jefferson, who refused to believe it 
until Page confirmed it; but the love-lorn 
swain gradually recovered from his dis- 
appointment. 

With youthful ardour they had planned 


TEbe Sage of /IDonticello 

53 

to buy adjoining estates and have a car- 
riage in common, when each married the 
lady of his love, that they might attend 
all the dances. A little later, when Page 
was also crossed in love, both forswore 
marriage forever. 

For five or six years, Jefferson was 
faithful to his vow — rather an unusual 
record. He met his fate at last in the per- 
son of a charming widow — Martha Skelton. 

The death of his sister, his devotion 
to his books, and his disappointment 
made him a sadder and a wiser man. 
His home at Shadwell had been burned, 
and he removed to Monticello, a house 
built on the same estate on a spur of the 
Blue Ridge Mountains, five hundred feet 
above the common level. 

He went often to visit Mrs. Skelton 
who made her home with her father after 
her bereavement. Usually he took his 
violin under his arm, and out of the 
harmonies which came from the instru- 
ment and the lady’s spinet came the 
greater one of love. 

Ube Sage 
of ADontU 
cello 


54 

Ubreabs of (Step atti> Golb 

Zbc Sage 
of ADontU 
cello 

They were married in January of 1772. 
The ceremony took place at “The Forest” 
in Charles City County. The chronicles 
describe the bride as a beautiful woman, 
a little above medium height, finely formed, 
and with graceful carriage. She was 
well educated, read a great deal, and played 
the spinet unusually well. 

The wedding journey was a strange one. 

It was a hundred miles from “The Forest ” 
to Monticello, and years afterward their 
eldest daughter, Martha Jefferson Ran- 
dolph, described it as follows: 

“They left ‘The Forest’ after a fall of 
snow, light then, but increasing in depth as 
they advanced up the country. They were 
finally obliged to quit the carriage and proceed 
on horseback. They arrived late at night, 
the fires were all out, and the servants had 
retired to their own houses for the night. 
The horrible dreariness of such a house, at 
the end of such a journey, I have often heard 
both relate.” 

Yet, the walls of Monticello, that 
afterwards looked down upon so much 


ttbe Sage ot flDonticello 

55 

sorrow and so much joy, must have long 
remembered the home-coming of master 
and mistress, for the young husband 
found a bottle of old wine * ‘on a shelf behind 
some books,” built a fire in the open fire- 
place, and “they laughed and sang together 
like two children.” 

And that life upon the hills proved very 
nearly ideal. They walked and planned 
and rode together, and kept house and 
garden books in the most minute fashion. 

Births and deaths followed each other 
at Monticello, but there was nothing else 
to mar the peace of that happy home. 
Between husband and wife there was no 
strife or discord, not a jar nor a rift in 
that unity of life and purpose which 
welds two souls into one. 

Childish voices came and went, but two 
daughters grew to womanhood, and in 
the evening, the day’s duties done, violin 
and harpsichord sounded sweet strains 
together. 

They reared other children besides 
their own, taking the helpless brood of 

Ube Sage 
of Aontia 
cello 


56 

ITbreabs of ©res anb <3olb 

Ube Sage 
of ADontU 
cello 

Jefferson’s sister into their hearts and 
home when Dabney Carr died. Those 
three sons and three daughters were 
educated with his own children, and 
lived to bless him as a second father. 

One letter is extant which was written 
to one of the nieces whom Jefferson so 
cheerfully supported. It reads as follows : 

“ Paris, June 14, 1787. 

“I send you, my dear Patsey, the fifteen 
livres you desired. You propose this to me 
as an anticipation of five weeks’ allowance, 
but do you not see, my dear, how imprudent 
it is to lay out in one moment what should 
accommodate you for five weeks? This is 
a departure from that rule which I wish to 
see you governed by, thro’ your whole life, 
of never buying anything which you have 
not the money in your pocket to pay for. 

“Be sure that it gives much more pain to the 
mind to be in debt than to do without any 
article whatever which we may seem to want. 

“The purchase you have made is one I am 
always ready to make for you because it is my 
wish to see you dressed always cleanly and a 
little more than decently; but apply to me first 
for the money before making the purchase, 
if only to avoid breaking through your rule. 


Ube Sage of fIDonticello 

57 

“Learn yourself the habit of adhering vigor- 
ously to the rules you lay down for yourself. 

I will come for you about eleven o’clock on 
Saturday. Hurry the making of your gown, 
and also your redingcote. You will go with 
me some day next week to dine at the Marquis 
Fayette. Adieu, my dear daughter, 

“Yours affectionately, 

“Th. Jefferson” 

Mrs. Jefferson’s concern for her husband, 
the loss of her children, and the weary 
round of domestic duties at last told upon 
her strong constitution. 

After the birth of her sixth child, Lucy 
Elizabeth, she sank rapidly, until at last it 
was plain to every one, except the dis- 
tracted husband, that she could never 

recover. 

Finally the blow fell. His daughter 
Martha wrote of it as follows: 

“Asa nurse no female ever had more tender- 
ness or anxiety. He nursed my poor mother 
in turn with Aunt Carr, and her own sister — 
sitting up with her and administering her 
medicines and drink to the last. 

“When at last he left his room, three weeks 
after my mother’s death, he rode out, and 

Ube Sage 
of fttontf* 
cello 


58 

TTbreabe of (Beep anb <Botf> 

Ubc Saae 
cf ADontU 
cello 

from that time, he was incessantly on horse- 
back, rambling about the mountain. ” 

Shortly afterward he received the ap- 
pointment of Plenipotentiary to Europe, to 
be associated with Franklin and Adams in 
negotiating peace. He had twice refused 
the same appointment, as he had promised 
his wife that he would never again enter 
public life, as long as she lived. 



59 

(Columbia 

O HE comes along old Ocean’s trackless 

O way — 

A warrior scenting conflict from afar 

And fearing not defeat nor battle-scar 

Nor all the might of wind and dashing 
spray; 

Her foaming path to triumph none may 
stay 

For in the East, there shines her morning 
star; 

She feels her strength in every shining 
spar 

As one who grasps his sword and waits 
for day. 

Columbia, Defender! dost thou hear? 

The clarion challenge sweeps the sea 

And straight toward the lightship doth 
she steer, 

Her steadfast pulses sounding jubilee; 

Arise, Defender! for thy way is clear 

And all thy country’s heart goes out to 
thee. 

Columbia 


6o 


H 

Daugbter’a 

love 

Gbe Stor? of H Daughter's love 

A ARON BURR was past-master of • 
^ what Whistler calls “the gentle art 
of making enemies!” Probably no man 
ever lived who was more bitterly hated 
or more fiercely reviled. Even at this day, 
when he has been dead more than half 
a century, his memory is still assailed. 

It is the popular impression that he 
was a villain. Perhaps he was, since 
“where there is smoke, there must be 
fire,” but happily we have no concern 
with the political part of his life. What- 
ever he may have been, and whatever 
dark deeds he may have done, there still 
remains a redeeming feature which no 
one has denied him — his love for his 
daughter, Theodosia. 

One must remember that before Burr 
was two years old, his father, mother, 


H Daughter’s Xove 

61 

and grandparents were all dead. He 
was reared by an uncle, Timothy Edwards, 
who doubtless did his best, but the odds 
were against the homeless child. Neither 
must we forget that he fought in the 
Revolution, bravely and well. 

From his early years he was very 
attractive to women. He was handsome, 
distinguished, well dressed, and gifted 
in many ways. He was generous, ready at 
compliments and gallantry, and possessed 
an all-compelling charm. 

In the autumn of 1777, his regiment 
was detailed for scouting duty in New 
Jersey, which was then the debatable 
ground between colonial and British 
armies. In January of 1779, Colonel Burr 
was given command of the “ lines’ * in 
Westchester County, New York. It was 
at this time that he first met Mrs. Prevost, 
the widow of a British officer. She lived 
across the Hudson, some fifteen miles 
from shore, and the river was patrolled 
by the gunboats of the British, and the 
land by their sentries. 

a 

Daughter's 

love 



62 

Ubreabs of ©res ant> ©olb 

B 

©aaabUt'a 
Xo *e 

In spite of these difficulties, however, 
Burr managed to make two calls upon 
the lady, although they were both neces- 
sarily informal. He sent six of his trusted 
soldiers to a place on the Hudson, where 
there was an overhanging bank under 
which they moored a large boat, well 
supplied with blankets and buffalo robes. 
At nine o’clock in the evening he left 
White Plains on the smallest and swiftest 
horse he could procure, and when he 
reached the rendezvous, the horse was 
quickly bound and laid in the boat. Burr 
and the six troopers stepped in, and in 
half an hour they were across the ferry. 
The horse was lifted out, and unbound, 
and with a little rubbing he was again 
ready for duty. 

Before midnight, Burr was at the house 
of his beloved, and at four in the morning 
he came back to the troopers awaiting 
him on the river bank, and the return 
trip was made in the same manner. 

For a year and a half after leaving the 
army, Burr was an invalid, but in July, 


a Daughter's Xove 

63 

1782, he married Mrs. Prevost. She was 
a widow with two sons, and was ten years 
older than her husband. Her health 
was delicate and she had a scar on her 
forehead, but her mind was finely culti- 
vated and her manners charming. 

Long after her death he said that if his 
manners were more graceful than those of 
some men, it was due to her influence, and 
that his wife was the truest woman, and 
most charming lady he had ever known. 

It has been claimed by some that Burr’s 
married life was not a happy one, but 
there are many letters still extant which 
passed between them which seemed to 
prove the contrary. Before marriage he 
did not often write to her, but dining his 
absences afterward, the fondest wife could 
have no reason to complain. 

For instance: 

“This morning came your truly welcome 
letter of Monday evening,” he wrote her at 
one time. “Where did it loiter so long?” 

“Nothing in my absence is so flattering to 
me as your health and cheerfulness. I then 

B 

©augbter'a 

love 


6 4 

tTbrea&s of ©res an& ©olb 

B 

daughter’s 

Xove 

contemplate nothing so eagerly as my return, 
amuse myself with ideas of my own happiness, 
and dwell upon the sweet domestic joys 
which I fancy prepared for me. 

“ Nothing is so unfriendly to every species of 
enjoyment as melancholy. Gloom, however 
dressed, however caused, is incompatible with 
friendship. They cannot have place in the 
mind at the same time. It is the secret, the 
malignant foe of sentiment and love.” 

He always wrote fondly of the children: 

“My love to the smiling little girl,” he said 
in one letter. “I continually plan my return 
with childish impatience, and fancy a thou- 
sand incidents which are most interesting.” 

After five years of married life the wife 
wrote him as follows : 

“Your letters always afford me a singular 
satisfaction, a sensation entirely my own. 
This was peculiarly so. It wrought strange- 
ly upon my mind and spirits. My Aaron, 
it was replete with tenderness and with the 
most lively affection. I read and re-read 
till afraid I should get it by rote, and mingle 
it with common ideas.” 

Soon after Burr entered politics, his 
wife developed cancer of the most virulent 


H Daughter’s Xove 

65 

character. Everything that money or 
available skill could accomplish was done 
for her, but she died after a lingering and 
painful illness, in the spring of 1794 

They had lived together happily for 
twelve years, and he grieved for her deeply 
and sincerely. Yet the greatest and most 
absorbing passion of his life was for his 
daughter, Theodosia, who was named for 
her mother and was born in the first year 
of their marriage. When little Theodosia 
was first laid in her father’s arms, all that 
was best in him answered to her mute 
plea for his affection, and later, all that 
was best in him responded to her baby 
smile. 

Between those two, there was ever the 
fullest confidence, never tarnished by 
doubt or mistrust, and when all the world 
forsook him, Theodosia, grown to woman- 
hood, stood proudly by her father’s side 
and shared his blame as if it had been the 
highest honour. 

When she was a year or two old, they 
moved to a large house at the corner of 

H 

daughter's 

Xove 


66 

Ubreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

a 

8>augbtcr'0 

love 

Cedar and Nassau Streets, in New York 
City. A large garden surrounded it and 
there were grapevines in the rear. Here 
the child grew strong and healthy, and 
laid the foundations of her girlish beauty 
and mature charm. When she was but 
three years old her mother wrote to the 
father, saying: 

“Your dear little Theodosia cannot hear you 
spoken of without an apparent melancholy; 
insomuch, that her nurse is obliged to exert 
her invention to divert her, and myself avoid 
the mention of you in her presence. She 
was one whole day indifferent to everything 
but your name. Her attachment is not of 
a common nature.” 

And again : 

“Your dear little daughter seeks you twenty 
times a day, calls you to your meals, and will 
not suffer your chair to be filled by any of 
the family.” 

The child was educated as if she had 
been a boy. She learned to read Latin 
and Greek fluently, and the accomplish- 
ments of her time were not neglected. 



H ©augbter's Xove 

67 

When she was at school, the father wrote 
her regularly, and did not allow one of 
her letters to wait a day for its affectionate 
answer. He corrected her spelling and 
her grammar, instilled sound truths into 
her mind, and formed her habits. From 
this plastic clay, with inexpressible love 
and patient toil, he shaped his ideal 

woman. 

She grew into a beautiful girl. Her 
features were much like her father’s. 
She was petite, graceful, plump, rosy, 
dignified, and gracious. In her manner, 
there was a calm assurance — the air of 
mastery over all situations — which she 
doubtless inherited from him. 

When she was eighteen years of age, 
she married Joseph Alston of South Caro- 
lina, and, with much pain at parting from 
her father, she went there to live, after 
seeing him inaugurated as Jefferson’s 
Vice-President. His only consolation was 
her happiness, and when he returned 
to New York, he wrote her that he 
approached the old house as if it had been 

a 

©auabttr's 

love 



68 

Ubreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

B 

Saunter's 

love 

the sepulchre of all his friends. “Dreary, 
solitary, comfortless — it was no longer 
home.” 

After her mother’s death, Theodosia 
had been the lady of his household and 
reigned at the head of his table. When 
he went back there was no loved face 
opposite him, and the chill and loneliness 
struck him to the heart. 

For three years after her marriage, 
Theodosia was blissfully happy. A boy 
was born to her, and was named Aaron 
Burr Alston. The Vice-President visited 

them in the South and took his namesake 
unreservedly into his heart. “If I can 
see without prejudice,’’ he said, “there 
never was a finer boy. ” 

His last act before fighting the duel 
with Hamilton, was writing to his daugh- 
ter — a happy, gay, care-free letter, giving 
no hint of what was impending. To her 
husband he wrote in a different strain, 
begging him to keep the event from her 
as long as possible, to make her happy 
always, and to encourage her in those 



H Daughter’s Xove 

69 

habits of study which he himself had 
taught her. 

She had parted from him with no other 
pain in her heart than the approaching 
separation. When they met again, he 
was a fugitive from justice, travel-stained 
from his long journey in an open canoe, 
indicted for murder in New York, and in 
New Jersey, although still President of 
the Senate, and Vice-President of the 
United States. 

The girl’s heart ached bitterly, yet no 
word of censure escaped her lips, and she 
still held her head high. When his Mexi- 
can scheme was overthrown, Theodosia 
sat beside him at his trial, wearing her 
absolute faith, so that all the world might 

see. 

When he was preparing for his flight 
to Europe, Theodosia was in New York, 
and they met by night, secretly, at the 
house of friends. Just before he sailed, 
they spent a whole night together, making 
the best of the little time that remained 
to them before the inevitable separation. 

B 

Daughter^ 

love 


70 

Tlbreabs of (Brey anb <Bolb 

B 

©augMcr’0 

love 

Early in June they parted, little dreaming 
that they should see each other no more. 

During the years of exile, Theodosia 
suffered no less than he. Mr. Alston had 
lost his faith in Aaron Burr, and the 
woman’s heart strained beneath the bur- 
den. Her health failed, her friends shrank 
from her, yet openly and bravely she 
clung to her father. 

Public opinion showed no signs of 
relenting, and his evil genius followed 
him across the sea. He was expelled 
from England, and in Paris he was almost 
a prisoner. At one time he was obliged 
to live upon potatoes and dry bread, and 
his devoted daughter could not help him. 

He was despised by his countrymen, but 
Theodosia’s adoring love never faltered. 
In one of her letters she said: 

“I witness your extraordinary fortitude 
with new wonder at every misfortune. 
Often, after reflecting on this subject, you 
appear to me so superior, so elevated above 
other men — I contemplate you with such a 
strange mixture of humility, admiration, 


a Daughter's Xove 

7 1 

reverence, love, and pride, that a very little 

H. 

superstition would be necessary to make 

daughter's 

me worship you as a superior being, such 
enthusiasm does your character excite in me. 

“When I afterward revert to myself, how 
insignificant do my best qualities appear! 
My own vanity would be greater if I had 
not been placed so near you, and yet, my 
pride is in our relationship. I had rather 
not live than not to be the daughter of 
such a man.” 

Xove 

She wrote to Mrs. Madison and asked 
her to intercede with the President for 
her father. The answer gave the required 
assurance, and she wrote to her father, 
urging him to go boldly to New York 
and resume the practice of his profession. 
“If worse comes to worst,” she wrote, 

I will leave everything to suffer with 
you. ” 


He landed in Boston and went on to 


New York in May of 1812, where his 
reception was better than he had hoped, 
and where he soon had a lucrative practice. 
They planned for him to come South in 
the summer, and she was almost happy 



72 

Hbreabs of ©rep an& ©olb 

B 

Daughter’s 

Xove 

again, when her child died and her mother’s 
heart was broken. 

She had borne much, and she never re- 
covered from that last blow. Her health 
failed rapidly, and though she was too 
weak to undertake the trip, she insisted 
upon going to New York to see her 
father. 

Thinking the voyage might prove bene- 
ficial, her husband reluctantly consented, 
and passage was engaged for her on a 
pilot-boat that had been out privateering, 
and had stopped for supplies before going 
onto New York. 

The vessel sailed — and a storm swept 
the Atlantic coast from Maine to Florida. 

It was supposed that the ship went down 
off Cape Hatteras, but forty years after- 
ward, a sailor, who died in Texas, confessed 
on his death-bed that he was one of a crew 
of mutineers who took possession of the 
Patriot and forced the passengers, as well, 
as the officers and men, to walk the plank. 
He professed to remember Mrs. Alston 
well, and said she was the last one who 


a Daughter's Xoue 

73 

perished. He never forgot her look of 
despair as she stepped into the sea — with 
her head held high even in the face of 
death. 

Among Theodosia’s papers was found a 
letter addressed to her husband, written 
at a time when she was weary of the 
struggle. On the envelope was written: 
“My Husband. To be delivered after 
my death. I wish this to be read imme- 
diately and before my burial.” 

He never saw the letter, for he never had 
the courage to go through her papers, and 
after his death it was sent to her father. 
It came to him like a message from the 

grave: 

“Let my father see my son, sometimes,” 
she had written. “Do not be unkind to him 
whom I have loved so much, I beseech of 
you. Burn all my papers except my father’s 
letters, which I beg you to return to him.” 

A long time afterward, her father 
married Madame Jumel, a rich New York 
woman who was many years his junior, 
but the alliance was unfortunate, and 

m 

daughter's 

Xove 


74 

Ubreabs of ©reg ant> ©olb 

m 

H>au$bter'* 

%ove 

was soon annulled. Through all the rest of 
his life, he never wholly gave up the hope 
that Theodosia might return. He clung 
fondly to the belief that she had been 
picked up by another ship, and some day 
would be brought back to him. 

Day by day, he haunted the Battery, 
anxiously searching the faces of the incom- 
ing passengers, asking some of them for 
tidings of his daughter, and always believ- 
ing that the next ship would bring her back. 

He became a familiar figure, for he was 
almost always there — a bent, shrunken 
little man, white-haired, leaning heavily 
upon his cane, asking questions in a thin 
piping voice, and straining his dim eyes 
forever toward the unsounded waters, from 
whence the idol of his heart never came. 

For out within those waters, cruel, change- 
less, 

She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or 
sea; 

A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but 
waiting, 

And I — I hear the sea- voice calling me. 




75 

Gbe Sea-lDoice 


OEYOND the sands I hear the sea- 

Ubc 

D voice calling 


With passion all but human in its pain, 


While from my eyes the bitter tears are 


falling, 


And all the summer land seems blind 


with rain; 


For out within those waters, cruel, change- 


less, 


She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or 


sea, 


A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but 


waiting, 


And I — I hear the sea- voice calling me. 


The tide comes in. The moonlight flood 


and glory 


Of that unresting surge thrill earth with 


bliss, 


And I can hear the passionate sweet 


story 


Of waves that waited round her for her 


kiss. 



76 

XEbreabs of Ov eg anb ©olb 

Ube 

SeacUotce 

Sweetheart, they love you; silent and 
unseeing, 

Old Ocean holds his court around you 
there, 

And while I reach out through the dark 
to find you 

His fingers twine the sea-weed in your 
hair. 

The tide goes out and in the dawn’s new 
splendour 

The dreams of dark first fade, then pass 
away, 

And I awake from visions soft and tender 

To face the shuddering agony of day 

For out within those waters, cruel, change- 
less, 

She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or 
sea; 

A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but 
waiting, 

And I — I hear the sea- voice calling me. 




77 

Che fleeter)? of iRanboIpb’s 
Courtship 

I T is said that in order to know a man, 

A one must begin with his ancestors, and 
the truth of the saying is strikingly 
exemplified in the case of “John Randolph 
of Roanoke,” as he loved to write his 

name. 

His contemporaries have told us what 
manner of man he was — fiery, excitable, 
of strong passions and strong will, capable 
of great bitterness, obstinate, revengeful, 
and extremely sensitive. 

“ I have been all my life, ” he says, “the 
creature of impulse, the sport of chance, 
the victim of my own uncontrolled and 
uncontrollable sensations, and of a poetic 
temperament. ” 

He was sarcastic to a degree, proud, 
haughty, and subject to fits of Byronic 

IRan&olpb’g 

Courtship 


78 

Gbreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Raiibolpb's 

Couttebt# 

despair and morbid gloom. For these 
traits we must look back to the Norman 
Conquest from which he traced his descent 
in an unbroken line, while, on the side of 
his maternal grandmother, he was the 
seventh in descent from Pocahontas, 
the Indian maiden who married John 
Rolfe. 

The Indian blood was evident, even in 
his personal appearance. He was tall, 
slender, and dignified in his bearing; his 
hands were thin, his fingers long and 
bony; his face was dark, sallow, and 
wrinkled, oval in shape and seamed with 
lines by the inward conflict which forever 
raged in his soul. His chin was pointed 
but firm, and his lips were set ; around his 
mouth were marked the tiny, almost 
imperceptible lines which mean cruelty. 
His nose was aquiline, his ears large at 
the top, tapering almost to a point at the 
lobe, and his forehead unusually high and 
broad. His hair was soft, and his skin, 
although dark, suffered from extreme sen- 
sitiveness. 



ffianbolpb’s Courtship 

79 

“There is no accounting for thinness of skins 
in different animals, human, or brute [he once 
said]. Mine, I believe to be more tender 
than many infants of a month old. Indeed I 
have remarked in myself, from my earliest 
recollection, a delicacy or effeminacy of com- 
plexion, which but for a spice of the devil in 
my temper would have consigned me to the 
distaff or the needle.” 

“A spice of the devil” is mild indeed, 
considering that before he was four years 
old he frequently swooned in fits of passion, 
and was restored to consciousness with 
difficulty. 

His most striking feature was his eyes. 
They were deep, dark, and fiery, filled 
with passion and great sadness at the 
same time. “When he first entered an 
assembly of people,” said one who knew 
him, “they were the eyes of the eagle in 
search of his prey, darting about from place 
to place to see upon whom to light. When 
he was assailed they flashed fire and 
proclaimed a torrent of rage within.” 

The voice of this great statesman was 
a rare gift: 

IRan&oIpb'g 

Courtsbfp 


8o 

TTbrea&s of <3reg ant> (3olt> 

•ftanbolpb's 

Courtship 

"One might live a hundred years [says one,] 
and never hear another like it. The wonder 
was why the sweet tone of a woman was so 
harmoniously blended with that of a man. 
His very whisper could be distinguished above 
the ordinary tones of other men. His voice 
was so singularly clear, distinct, and melodious 
that it was a positive pleasure to hear him 
articulate anything.” 

Such was the man who swayed the 
multitude at will, punished offenders with 
sarcasm and invective, inspired fear even 
in his equals, and loved and suffered more 
than any other prominent man of his 
generation. 

He had many acquaintances, a few 
friends, and three loves — his mother, his 
brother, and the beautiful young woman 
who held his heart in the hollow of her 
hand, until the Gray Angel, taking pity, 
closed his eyes in the last sleep. 

His mother, who was Frances Bland, 
married John Randolph in 1769, and John 
Randolph, of Roanoke, was their third son. 

Tradition tells us of the unusual beauty 
of the mother — 



■ftanbolpb’s Courtship 

81 

“the high expanded forehead, the smooth 
arched brow ; the brilliant dark eyes ; the well 
defined nose ; the full round laughing lips ; the 
tall graceful figure, the beautiful dark hair; 
an open cheerful countenance — suffused with 
that deep, rich Oriental tint which never 
seems to fade, all of which made her the 
most beautiful and attractive woman of her 
age.” 

She was a wife at sixteen, and at 
twenty-six a widow. Three years after 
the death of her husband, she married 
St. George Tucker, of Bermuda who 
proved to be a kind father to her children. 

In the winter of 1781, Benedict Arnold, 
the traitor who had spread ruin through 
his native state, was sent to Virginia on 
an expedition of ravage. He landed at 
the mouth of the James, and advanced 
toward Petersburg. Matoax, Randolph's 
home, was directly in the line of the 
invading army, so the family set out on 
a cold January morning, and at night 
entered the home of Benjamin Ward, Jr. 

John Randolph was seven years old, 
and little Maria Ward had just passed 

IRanbolpb’a 

Courtship 



82 

ftbreabs of Greg an& ©oR> 

IRanbolpb’s 

CourtsMp 

her fifth birthday. The two children 
played together happily, and in the boy’s 
heart was sown the seed of that grand 
passion which dominated his life. 

After a few days, the family went on 
to Bizarre, a large estate on both sides 
of the Appomattox, and here Mrs. Tucker 
and her sons spent the remainder of 
the year, while her husband joined General 
Greene’s army, and afterward, the force of 
Lafayette. 

In 1788, John Randolph’s mother died, 
and his first grief swept over him in an 
overwhelming torrent. The boy of fifteen 
spent bitter nights, his face buried in the 
grass, sobbing over his mother’s grave. 
Years afterward, he wrote to a friend, 

“ I am a fatalist. I am all but friendless. 
Only one human being ever knew me. She 
only knew me. ” 

He kept his mother’s portrait always in 
his room, and enshrined her in loving re- 
membrance in his heart. He had never 

seen his father’s face to remember it dis- 
tinctly, and for a long time he wore his 


IRanOolpb’s Courtship 

83 

miniature in his bosom. In 1796, his 
brother Richard died, and the unexpected 
blow crushed him to earth. More than 
thirty years afterward he wrote to his 
half-brother, Henry St. George Tucker, 
the following note: 

“Dear Henry 

“Our poor brother Richard was bom in 
1770. He would have been fifty-six years 
old the ninth of this month. I can no more. 

“J.R. of R.” 

At some time in his early manhood he 
came into close relationship with Maria 
Ward. She had been an attractive child, 
and had grown into a woman so beautiful 
that Lafayette said her equal could not 
be found in North America. Her hair 
was auburn, and hung in curls around 
her face; her skin was exquisitely fair; 
her eyes were dark and eloquent. Her 
mouth was well formed; she was slender, 
graceful, and coquettish, well-educated, 
and in every way, charming. 

To this woman, John Randolph’s heart 
went out in passionate, adoring love. 

Iftanbolpb’fl 

(tauctsMp 



8 4 

Cbreabs ot ©reg anb 0olb 

IRan&olpb'e 

Courtship 

He might be bitter and sarcastic with 
others, but with her he was gentleness 
itself. Others might know him as a man 
of affairs, keen and logical, but to her 
he was only a lover. 

Timid and hesitating at first, afraid 
perhaps of his fiery wooing, Miss Ward 
kept him for some time in suspense. All 
the treasures of his mind and soul were 
laid before her; that deep, eloquent voice 
which moved the multitude to tears at its 
master’s will was pleading with a woman 
for her love. 

What wonder that she yielded at last 
and promised to marry him? Then for 
a time everything else was forgotten. 
The world lay before him to be conquered 
when he might choose. Nothing would 
be too great for him to accomplish — 
nothing impossible to that eager joyous 
soul enthroned at last upon the greatest 
heights of human happiness. And then — 
there was a change. He rode to her home 
one day, tying his horse outside as was 
his wont. A little later he strode out, 


Kfcm&olpb’s Courtship 

85 

shaking like an aspen, his face white in 
agony. He drew his knife from his 
pocket, cut the bridle of his horse, dug 
his spurs into the quivering sides, and 
was off like the wind. What battle was 
fought out on that wild ride is known only 
to John Randolph and his God. What 
torture that fiery soul went through, no 
human being can ever know. When he 
came back at night, he was so changed 
that no one dared to speak to him. 

He threw himself into the political 
arena in order to save his reason. Often 
at midnight, he would rise from his uneasy 
bed, buckle on his pistols, and ride like 
mad over the country, returning only 
when his horse was spent. He never 
saw Miss Ward again, and she married 
Peyton Randolph, the son of Edmund 
Randolph, who was Secretary of State 
under Washington. 

The entire affair is shrouded in mystery. 
There is not a letter, nor a single scrap 
of paper, nor a shred of evidence upon 
which to base even a presumption. The 

1Ran&oIpb , 0 

Courtship 



86 

flbreafcs of <Brcg anO ©olD 

IRanfroIpb's 

Courtship 

separation was final and complete, and 
the white-hot metal of the man’s nature 
was gradually moulded into that strange 
eccentric being whose foibles are so well 
known. 

Only once did Randolph lift even a 
comer of the veil. In a letter to his 
dearest friend he spoke of her as: 

“One I loved better than my own soul, or 
Him who created it. My apathy is not 
natural, but superinduced. There was a 
volcano under my ice, but it burnt out, and 
a face of desolation has come on, not to be 
rectified in ages, could my life be prolonged 
to patriarchal longevity. 

“The necessity of loving and being loved 
was never felt by the imaginary beings of 
Rousseau and Byron's creation, more im- 
periously than by myself. My heart was 
offered with a devotion that knew no reserve. 
Long an object of proscription and treachery, 

I have at last, more mortifying to the pride of 
man, become an object of utter indifference.” 

The brilliant statesman would doubtless 
have had a large liberty of choice among 
the many beautiful women of his circle, 
but he never married, and there is no 


IRan&olpb’s Gourtabip 

87 

record of any entanglement. To the few 
women he deemed worthy of his respect 
and admiration, he was deferential and 
even gallant. In one of his letters to a 
young relative he said : 

“Love to god-son Randolph and respectful 
compliments to Mrs. R. She is indeed a fine 
woman, one for whom I have felt a true 
regard, unmixed with the foible of another 
passion. 

“Fortunately or unfortunately for me, when 

I knew her, I bore a charmed heart. Nothing 
else could have preserved me from the full 
force of her attractions.” 

For much of the time after his dis- 
appointment, he lived alone with his 
servants, solaced as far as possible by 
those friends of all mankind — books. 
When the spirit moved him, he would 
make visits to the neighbouring planta- 
tions, sometimes dressed in white flannel 
trousers, coat, and vest, and with white 
paper wrapped around his beaver hat! 
When he presented himself in this manner, 
riding horseback, with his dark eyes burn- 

fUnbolpb’0 

Couttebfp 


88 

Xfbreabs of ©teg ant> ©olb 

IftanDolpb'a 

Courtship 

ing, he was said to have presented “a 
most ghostly appearance!” 

An old lady who lived for years on the 
banks of the Staunton, near Randolph’s 
solitary home, tells a pathetic story : 

She was sitting alone in her room in the 
dead of winter, when a beautiful woman, 
pale as a ghost, dressed entirely in white, 
suddenly appeared before her, and began 
to talk about Mr. Randolph, saying he 
was her lover and would marry her yet, as 
he had never proved false to his plighted 
faith. She talked of him incessantly, 
like one deranged, until a young gentleman 
came by the house, leading a horse with 
a side-saddle on. She rushed out, and 
asked his permission to ride a few miles. 
Greatly to his surprise, she mounted with- 
out assistance, and sat astride like a man. 
He was much embarrassed, but had no 
choice except to escort her to the end of 
her journey. 

The old lady who tells of this strange 
experience says that the young woman 
several times visited Mr. Randolph, al- 


■ftan&olpb’s Courtship 

89 

ways dressed in white and usually in 
the dead of winter. He always put her 
on a horse and sent her away with a ser- 
vant to escort her. 

In his life there were but two women — 

his mother and Maria Ward. While 
his lips were closed on the subject of his 
love, he did not hesitate to avow his 
misery. “I too am wretched,” he would 
say with infinite pathos; and after her 
death, he spoke of Maria Ward as his 
“angel.” 

In a letter written sometime after she 
died, he said, strangely enough : “I loved, 
aye, and was loved again, not wisely, 
but too well.” 

His brilliant career was closed when 
he was sixty years old, and in his last 
illness, diming delirium, the name of Maria 
was frequently heard by those who were 
anxiously watching with him. But, true 
to himself and to her, even when his 
reason was dethroned, he said nothing 

more. 

He was buried on his own plantation, 

■Ranbolpb'g 

Courtsblp 


90 

Elneabs ot (5ccg ant> <Bol& 

Ifianbolpb'g 

Courtship 

in the midst of “that boundless contiguity 
of shade,” with his secret locked forever 
in his tortured breast. “John Randolph 
of Roanoke,” was all the title he claimed; 
but the history of those times teaches 
us that he was more than that — he was 
John Randolph, of the Republic. 




9i 

Ibow president 3acft0on Mon 
Ibis Mife 

IN October of 1788, a little company of 

1 immigrants arrived in Tennessee. The 
star of empire, which is said to move 
westward, had not yet illumined Nashville, 
and it was one of the dangerous points 
“on the frontier.” 

The settlement was surrounded on all 
sides by hostile Indians. Men worked 
in the fields, but dared not go out to their 
daily task without being heavily armed. 
When two men met, and stopped for 
a moment to talk, they often stood back 
to back, with their rifles cocked ready 
for instant use. No one stooped to drink 
from a spring unless another guarded 
him, and the women were always attended 
by an armed force. 

Col. John Donelson had built for himself 

*>ow 

5 ac feeoii 
Mon 
fci0 Mtfc 


92 

XEbtreabs ot ©teg anb ©olb 

•fcow 
Jackson 
TOon 
t>te TKUfe 

a blockhouse of unusual size and strength, 
and furnished it comfortably; but while 
surveying a piece of land near the village, 
he was killed by the savages, and his 
widow left to support herself as best she 
could. 

A married daughter and her husband 
lived with her, but it was necessary for 
her to take other boarders. One day 
there was a vigorous rap upon the stout 
door of the blockhouse, and a young man 
whose name was Andrew Jackson was 
admitted. Shortly afterward, he took 
up his abode as a regular boarder at the 
Widow Donelson’s. 

The future President was then twenty- 
one or twenty-two. He was tall and 
slender, with every muscle developed 
to its utmost strength. He had an 
attractive face, pleasing manners, and 
made himself agreeable to every one in 
the house. 

The dangers of the frontier were but 
minor incidents in his estimation, for ‘‘des- 
perate courage makes one a majority,” 


Dow Jacfeson Mon Dis Mite 

93 

and he had courage. When he was but 
thirteen years of age, he had boldly defied 
a British officer who had ordered him to 
clean some cavalry boots. 

“Sir,” said the boy, “I am a prisoner of 
war, and I claim to be treated as such!” 

With an oath the officer drew his sword, 
and struck at the child’s head. He parried 
the blow with his left arm, but received 
a severe wound on his head and another 
on his arm, the scars of which, he always 
carried. 

The protecting presence of such a man 
was welcome to those who dwelt in the 
blockhouse — Mrs. Donelson, Mr. and Mrs. 
Robards, and another boarder, John Over- 
ton. Mrs. Donelson was a good cook 
and a notable housekeeper, while her 
daughter was said to be “the best story 
teller, the best dancer, the sprightliest 
companion, and the most dashing horse- 
woman in the western country. ” 

Jackson, as the only licensed lawyer 
in that part of Tennessee, soon had plenty 
of business on his hands, and his life in 

f)OW 

Sacfeson 

Mon 

Dia Mite 


94 

flbrea&a of ©res ant> (Bolb 

150W 

3acfeeon 

HUon 

mite 

the blockhouse was a happy one until 
he learned that the serpent of jealousy 
lurked by that fireside. 

Mrs. Robards was a comely brunette, 
and her dusky beauty carried with it an 
irresistible appeal. Jackson soon learned 
that Captain Robards was unreasonably 
and even insanely jealous of his wife, and 
he learned from John Overton that before 
his arrival there had been a great deal of 
unhappiness because of this. 

At one time Captain Robards had 
written to Mrs. Donelson to take her 
daughter home, as he did not wish to 
live with her any longer; but through 
the efforts of Mr. Overton a reconciliation 
had been effected between the pair, and 
they were still living together at Mrs. 
Donelson’s when Jackson went there to 
board. 

In a short time, however, Robards be- 
came violently jealous of Jackson and 
talked abusively to his wife, even in the 
presence of her mother and amidst the 
tears of both. Once more Overton inter- 



tiow 3acfeson Mon Ibis Mlfe 

95 

fered, assured Robards that his suspicions 
were groundless, and reproached him for 
his unmanly conduct. 

It was all in vain, however, and the 
family was in as unhappy a state as before, 
when they were living with the Captain’s 
mother who had always taken the part of 
her daughter-in-law. 

At length Overton spoke to Jackson 
about it, telling him it was better not to 
remain where his presence made so much 
trouble, and offered to go with him to 
another boarding-place. Jackson readily 
assented, though neither of them knew 
where to go, and said that he would talk 
to Captain Robards. 

The men met near the orchard fence, 
and Jackson remonstrated with the 
Captain who grew violently angry and 
threatened to strike him. Jackson told 
him that he would not advise him to try 
to fight, but if he insisted, he would try 
to give him satisfaction. Nothing came 
of the discussion, however, as Robards 
seemed willing to take Jackson’s advice 

t)OW 

5acfeson 

XtUon 

Dig TOIUfe 


96 

XEbreabs of Ores an& Oolb 

t)OW 

Jacfcson 
Mon 
•bis Mife 

and did not dare to strike him. But the 
coward continued to abuse his wife, and 
insulted Jackson at every opportunity. 
The result was that the young lawyer 
left the house. 

A few months later, the still raging hus- 
band left his wife and went to Kentucky, 
which was then a part of Virginia. Soon 
afterward, Mrs. Robards went to live 
with her sister, Mrs. Hay, and Overton 
returned to Mrs. Donelson’s. 

In the following autumn there was a 
rumour that Captain Robards intended to 
return to Tennessee and take his wife to 
Kentucky, at which Mrs. Donelson and 
her daughter were greatly distressed. Mrs. 
Robards wept bitterly, and said it was im- 
possible for her to live peaceably with her 
husband as she had tried it twice and failed. 
She determined to go down the river to 
Natchez, to a friend, and thus avoid her 
husband, wh 3 she said had threatened to 
haunt her. 

When Jackson heard of this arrange- 
ment he was very much troubled, for he 


Dow JacKson Mon Dfs Mffe 

97 

felt that he had been the unwilling cause 
of the young wife’s unhappiness, although 
entirely innocent of any wrong intention. 
So when Mrs. Robards had fully deter- 
mined to undertake the journey to Natchez, 
accompanied only by Colonel Stark and 
his family, he offered to go with them as 
an additional protection against the In- 
dians who were then especially active, and 
his escort was very gladly accepted. The 
trip was made in safety, and after seeing 
the lady settled with her friends, he re- 
turned to Nashville and resumed his law 
practice. 

At that time there was no divorce law 
in Virginia, and each separate divorce 
required the passage of an act of the 
legislature before a jury could consider 
the case. In the winter of 1791, Captain 
Robards obtained the passage of such 
an act, authorising the court of Mercer 
County to act upon his divorce. Mrs. 
Robards, hearing of this, understood that 
the passage of the act was, in itself, 
divorce, and that she was a free woman. 

t>ow 
Sacfcson 
UHon 
t>te XKHifc 


9 8 

Gbteabs of ©res an& ©oI& 

fx>w 

3achaon 

XUon 

1 M 0 mi fe 

Jackson also took the divorce for granted. 
Every one in the country so understood 
the matter, and at Natchez, in the follow- 
ing summer, the two were married. 

They returned to Nashville, settled 
down, and Jackson began in earnest the 
career that was to land him in the White 
House, the hero of the nation. 

In December of 1793, more than two 
years after their marriage, their friend 
Overton learned that the legislature had 
not granted a divorce, but had left it 
for the court to do so. Jackson was 
much chagrined when he heard of this, 
and it was with great difficulty that he 
was brought to believe it. In January 
of 1794, when the decree was finally 
obtained, they were married again. 

It is difficult to excuse Jackson for 
marrying the woman without positive 
and absolute knowledge of her divorce. 
He was a lawyer, and could have learned 
the facts of the case, even though there 
was no established mail service. Each 
of them had been entirely innocent of 


t>ow 3acfeson Mon Ufa Mtfe 

99 

any intentional wrong-doing, and their 
long life together, their great devotion 
to each other, and General Jackson’s 
honourable career, forever silenced the 
spiteful calumny of his rivals and enemies 
of early life. 

In his eyes his wife was the soul of 
honour and purity; he loved and rever- 
enced her as a man loves and reverences 
but one woman in his lifetime, and for 
thirty- seven years he kept -a pair of pistols 
loaded for the man who should dare to 
breathe her name without respect. 

The famous pistol duel with Dickinson 
was the result of a quarrel which had its 
beginning in a remark reflecting upon 
Mrs. Jackson, and Dickinson, though a 
crack shot, paid for it with his life. 

Several of Dickinson’s friends sent 
a memorial to the proprietors of the 
Impartial Review , asking that the next 
number of the paper appear in mourning, 
“out of respect for the memory, and 
regret for the untimely death, of Mr. 
Charles Dickinson.” 

t)OW 

3acfceon 

HHUm 

DteTHUfe 


100 

XEbcea&s of (Bees anO <BoU> 

tww 
3acfeeo« 
Mon 
f >1« Mtfe 

“Old Hickory” heard of this movement, 
and wrote to the proprietors, asking that 
the names of the gentlemen making the 
request be published in the memorial 
number of the paper. This also was 
agreed to, and it is significant that twenty- 
six of the seventy-three men who had 
signed the petition called and erased 
their names from the document. 

11 The Hermitage” at Nashville, which 
is still a very attractive spot for visitors, 
was built solely to please Mrs. Jackson, 
and there she dispensed gracious hospi- 
tality. Not merely a guest or two, but 
whole families, came for weeks at a time, 
for the mistress of the mansion was fond 
of entertaining, and proved herself a 
charming hostess. She had a good mem- 
ory, had passed through many and greatly 
varied experiences, and above all she had 
that rare faculty which is called tact. 

Though her husband’s love for her 
was evident to every one, yet, in the 
presence of others, he always maintained 
a dignified reserve. He never spoke of her 


t>ow 3acfeson Mon 1>is Mife 

IOI 

as “ Rachel,” nor addressed her as “My 
Dear. ” It was always “Mrs. Jackson,” 
or “wife.” She always called him “Mr. 
Jackson,” never “Andrew” nor “ General.” 

Both of them greatly desired children, 
but this blessing was denied them ; so they 
adopted a boy, the child of Mrs. Jackson’s 
brother, naming him “Andrew Jackson, ” 
and bringing him up as their own child. 

The lady’s portrait shows her to have 
been wonderfully attractive. It does not 
reveal the dusky Oriental tint of her 
skin, the ripe red of her lips, nor the 
changing lights in her face, but it shows 
the high forehead, the dark soft hair, 
the fine eyes, and the tempting mouth 
which was smiling, yet serene. A lace 
head-dress is worn over the waving hair, 
and the filmy folds fall softly over neck 
and bosom. 

When Jackson was elected to the 
Presidency, the ladies of Nashville or- 
ganized themselves into sewing circles 
to prepare Mrs. Jackson’s wardrobe. It 
was a labour of love. On December 23, 

1>ow 

3acfeson 

UPon 

Dfa min 


102 

Hbreabs ot ©r eg anb ©olb 

•foow 
Jacbson 
TOlon 
t)i§ TOUfc 

1828, there was to be a grand banquet 
in Jackson’s honour, and the devoted 
women of their home city had made 
a beautiful gown for his wife to wear at 
the dinner. At sunrise the preparations 
began. The tables were set, the dining- 
room decorated, and the officers and men 
of the troop that was to escort the Presi- 
dent-elect were preparing to go to the home 
and attend him on the long ride into the 
city. Their horses were saddled and in 
readiness at the place of meeting. As the 
bugle sounded the summons to mount, a 
breathless messenger appeared on a horse 
flecked with foam. Mrs. Jackson had 
died of heart disease the evening before. 

The festival was changed to a funeral, 
and the trumpets and drums that were to 
have sounded salute were muffled in 
black. All decorations were taken down, 
and the church bells tolled mournfully. 
The grief of the people was beyond speech. 
Each one felt a personal loss. 

At the home the blow was terrible. 
The lover-husband would not leave his 


Ifoow 3 acfcson Mon IfMs Mite 

103 

wife. In those bitter hours the highest 
gift of his countrymen was an empty 
triumph, for his soul was wrecked with 
the greatness of his loss. 

When she was buried at the foot of a 
slope in the garden of “The Hermitage,” 
his bereavement came home to him with 
crushing strength. Back of the open grave 
stood a great throng of people, waiting in 
the wintry wind. The sun shone brightly 
on the snow, but “The Hermitage” was 
desolate, for its light and laughter and love 
were gone. The casket was carried down 
the slope, and a long way behind it came 
the General, slowly and almost helpless, 
between two of his friends. 

The people of Nashville had made ready 
to greet him with the blare of bugles, 
waving flags, the clash of cymbals, and 
resounding cheers. It was for the Presi- 
dent-elect — the hero of the war. The 
throng that stood behind the open grave 
greeted him with sobs and tears — not 
the President-elect, but the man bowed 
by his sixty years, bareheaded, with his 

fjow 

Sacfeson 

TMon 

*>(« mac 


104 

XI breads of Gres? anb Go lb 

•fcow 

Sacfcaon 

TKflon 

Tbtg HCUfe 

gray hair rumpled in the wind, staggering 
toward them in the throes of his bitterest 
grief. 

In that one night he had grown old. 
He looked like a man stricken beyond 
all hope. When his old friends gathered 
around him with the tears streaming down 
their cheeks, wringing his hand in silent 
sympathy, he could make no response. 

He was never the same again, though his 
strength of will and his desperate courage 
fought with this infinite pain. For the 
rest of his life he lived as she would have 
had him live — guided his actions by the 
thought of what his wife, if living, would 
have had him do — loving her still, with the 
love that passeth all understanding. 

He declined the sarcophagus fit for an 
emperor, that he might be buried like a 
simple citizen, in the garden by her side. 

His last words were of her — his last look 
rested upon her portrait that hung oppo- 
site his bed, and if there be dreaming in 
the dark, the vision of her brought him 
peace at last. 



105 

Gbe JBacbelor president's Xoplts 
to a (Pernors 

r "PHE fifteenth President was remarkable 
* among the men of his time for his 
life-long fidelity to one woman, for since 
the days of knight-errantry such devotion 
has been as rare as it is beautiful. The 
young lawyer came of Scotch-Irish parent- 
age, and to this blending of blood were 
probably in part due his deep love and 
steadfastness. There was rather more of 
the Irish than of the Scotch in his face, and 
when we read that his overflowing spirits 
were too much for the college in which he 
had been placed, and that, for “reasons 
of public policy,” the honours which he 
had earned were on commencement day 
given to another, it is evident that he may 
sometimes have felt that he owed allegiance 
primarily to the Emerald Isle. 

Ube 

JBacbelot 

president's 

lo^alts 


io6 

Ubreabs of Greg ant) Golb 

Zbc 

Bachelor 

preslbent’a 

Xo^altg 

Like others, who have been capable of 
deep and lasting passion, James Buchanan 
loved his mother. Among his papers 
there was found a fragment of an auto- 
biography, which ended in 1816, when 
the writer was only twenty-five years 
of age. He says his father was “a kind 
father, a sincere friend, and an honest 
and religious man,” but on the subject 
of his mother he waxes eloquent: 

“ Considering her limited opportunities in 
early life [he writes], my mother was a 
remarkable woman. The daughter of a 
country farmer, engaged in household em- 
ployment from early life until after my 
father’s death, she yet found time to read 
much, and to reflect deeply on what she 
read. 

She had a great fondness for poetry, and 
could repeat with ease all the passages in her 
favorite authors which struck her fancy. 
These were Milton, Pope, Young, Cowper, 
and Thompson. 

I do not think, at least until a late period 
in life, she had ever read a criticism on any 
one of these authors, and yet such was the 
correctness of her natural taste, that she 
had selected for herself, and could repeat, 


TTbc SSacbelor president's OLopaltg 

107 

every passage in them which has been ad- 
mired. . . . 

‘‘For her sons, as they grew up successively, 
she was a delightful and instructive compan- 
ion. . . . She was a woman of great firmness 
of character, and bore the afflictions of her 
later life with Christian philosophy. . . . 
It was chiefly to her influence, that her sons 
were indebted for a liberal education. Under 
Providence I attribute any little distinction 
which I may have acquired in the world to 
the blessing which He conferred upon me in 
granting me such a mother.” ' 

If Elizabeth Buchanan could have read 
these words, doubtless she would have 
felt fully repaid for her many years of 
toil, self-sacrifice, and devotion. 

After the young man left the legislature 
and took up the practice of law, with the 
intention of spending his life at the bar, 
he became engaged to Anne Coleman, the 
daughter of Robert Coleman, of Lancaster. 

She is said to have been an unusu- 
ally beautiful girl, quiet, gentle, modest, 
womanly, and extremely sensitive. The 
fine feelings of a delicately organized 
nature may easily become either a bless- 

Zbc 

JBacbelor 

prealbent’0 

losalts 


io8 

Ubreabs of <Breg anb ®olb 

Ube 

Sacbelor 

president'* 

in g or a curse, and on account of her 
sensitiveness there was a rupture for which 
neither can be very greatly blamed. 

Mr. Coleman approved of the engage- 
ment, and the happy lover worked hard 
to make a home for the idol of his heart. 
One day, out of the blue sky a thunderbolt 
fell. He received a note from Miss 
Coleman asking him to release her from 
her engagement. 

There was no explanation forthcoming, 
and it was not until long afterward that 
he discovered that busy-bodies and gossips 
had gone to Miss Coleman with stories 
concerning him which had no foundation 
save in their mischief-making imaginations, 
and which she would not repeat to him. 
After all his efforts at re-establishing the 
old relations had proved useless, he wrote 
to her that if it were her wish to be re- 
leased from her engagement he could 
but submit, as he had no desire to hold 
her against her will. 

The break came in the latter part of 
the summer of 1819, when he was twenty- 


Ube Bachelor president’s Xosaltv; 

109 

eight years old and she was in her twenty- 
third year. He threw himself into his 
work with renewed energy, and later on 
she went to visit friends in Philadelphia. 

Though she was too proud to admit it, 
there was evidence that the beautiful 
and high-spirited girl was suffering from 
heartache. On the ninth of December, 
she died suddenly, and her body was 
brought home just a week after she left 
Lancaster. The funeral took place the 
next day, Sunday, and to the suffering 
father of the girl, the heart-broken lover 
wrote a letter which in simple pathos 
stands almost alone. It is the only 
document on this subject which remains, 
but in these few lines is hidden a tragedy : 

“ Lancaster, December io, 1819. 
"My Dear Sir: 

“ You have lost a child, a dear, dear child. 

I have lost the only earthly object of my 
affections, without whom, life now presents 
to me a dreary blank. My prospects are 
all cut off, and I feel that my happiness will 
be buried with her in her grave. 

“It is now no time for explanation, but the 
time will come when you will discover that 

Ube 

JSacbelor 

president's 

Xosalts 


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TEbreaDs of ©cep anb ©olb 

TTbc 

*acbelor 

Iprestbent’a 

Xo^alt? 

she, as well as I, has been greatly abused. 
God forgive the authors of it! My feelings 
of resentment against them, whoever they 
may be, are buried in the dust. 

“ I have now one request to make, and for 
the love of God, and of your dear departed 
daughter, whom I loved infinitely more than 
any human being could love, deny me not. 
Afford me the melancholy pleasure of seeing 
her body before its interment. I would not, 
for the world, be denied this request. 

“I might make another, but from the mis- 
representations that have been made to you, 

I am almost afraid. I would like to follow 
her remains, to the grave as a mourner. I 
would like to convince the world, I hope 
yet to convince you, that she was infinitely 
dearer to me than life. 

“I may sustain the shock of her death, but 

I feel that happiness has fled from me for- 
ever. The prayer which I make to God 
without ceasing is, that I yet may be able 
to show my veneration for the memory of 
my dear, departed saint, by my respect and 
attachment for her surviving friends. 

“ May Heaven bless you and enable you 
to bear the shock with the fortitude of a 
Christian. 

“ I am forever, your sincere and grateful 
friend, 

“James Buchanan.” 


Uhc Bachelor president's Xogaltg 

hi 

The father returned the letter unopened 
and without comment. Death had only- 
widened the breach. It would have been 
gratifying to know that the two lovers 
were together for a moment at the end. 

For such a meeting as that there are no 
words but Edwin Arnold’s: 

“But he — who loved her too well to dread 
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead — 
He lit his lamp, and took the key, 

And turn’d it ! — alone again — he and she! ” 

For him there was not even a glimpse 
of her as she lay in her coffin, nor a whisper 
that some day, like Evelyn Hope, she 
might “wake, and remember and under- 
stand.” With that love that asks only 
for the right to serve, and feeling perhaps 
that no pen could do her justice, he 
obtained permission to write a paragraph 
for a local paper, which was published un- 
signed : 

“Departed this life, on Thursday morning 
last, in the twenty-third year of her age, 
while on a visit to friends in the city of 
Philadelphia, Miss Anne C. Coleman, daugh- 

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Xosalts 


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Ubrea&s o( ©reg anb ©olb 

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ter of Robert Coleman, Esquire of this city. 

It rarely falls to our lot to shed a tear over 
the remains of one so much and so deservedly 
beloved as was the deceased. She was 
everything which the fondest parent, or the 
fondest friend could have wished her to be. 

Although she was young and beautiful 
and accomplished, and the smiles of fortune 
shone upon her, yet her native modesty and 
worth made her unconscious of her own 
attractions. Her heart was the seat of all 
the softer virtues which ennoble and dignify 
the character of woman. 

She has now gone to a world, where, in 
the bosom of her God, she will be happy 
with congenial spirits. May the memory 
of her virtues be ever green in the hearts 
of her surviving friends. May her mild 
spirit, which on earth still breathes peace and 
good will, be their guardian angel to pre- 
serve them from the faults to which she was 
ever a stranger. 

“The spider’s most attenuated thread 

Is cord, is cable, to man’s tender tie 

On earthly bliss — it breaks at every breeze.” 

How deeply he felt her death is shown 
by extracts from a letter written to him by 
a friend in the latter part of December: 


Ube Bachelor iPresibent’s Xogaltg 

113 

“I am writing, I know not why, and perhaps 
had better not. I write only to speak of the 
awful visitation of Providence that has 
fallen upon you, and how deeply I feel it. . . . 

I trust to your philosophy and courage, and 
to the elasticity of spirits natural to most 
young men. . . . 

The sun will shine again, though a man 
enveloped in gloom always thinks the dark- 
ness is to be eternal. Do you remember 
the Spanish anecdote? 

A lady who had lost a favorite child re- 
mained for months sunk in sullen sorrow and 
despair. Her confessor, one morning visited 
her, and found her, as usual immersed in 
gloom and grief. ‘What/ said he, ‘Have 
you not forgiven God Almighty?* 

She rose, exerted herself, joined the world 
again, and became useful to herself and her 
friends.” 

Time's kindly touch heals many wounds, 
but the years seemed to bring to James 
Buchanan no surcease of sorrow. He 
was always under the cloud of that mis- 
understanding, and during his long politi- 
cal career, the incident frequently served 
as a butt for the calumnies of his enemies. 
It was freely used in “campaign docu- 

Ube 

JSacbelor 

Jirestoent’a 


1 14 

Ubreabs of ©res an& ©olb 

Zbc 

®acb<tor 

preafoent'e 

lo^alts 

merits, M perverted, misrepresented, and 
twisted into every conceivable shape, 
though it is difficult to conceive how 
any form of humanity could ever be so 
base. 

Next to the loss of the girl he loved, 
this was the greatest grief of his life. To 
see the name of his “dear, departed saint” 
dragged into newspaper notoriety was 
absolute torture. Denial was useless, and 
pleading had no effect. After he had 
retired to his home at Wheatland, and 
when he was past seventy — when Anne 
Coleman’s beautiful body had gone back 
to the dust, there was a long article in 
a newspaper about the affair, accompanied 
by the usual misrepresentations. 

To a friend, he said, with deep emotion : 
“In my safety-deposit box in New York 
there is a sealed package, containing papers 
and relics which will explain everything. 
Sometime, when I am dead, the world 
will know — and absolve.” 

But after his death, when his executors 
found the package, there was a direction 



TLbc HBacbelor lprestbent’s Xo^altg 

ii5 

on the outside: “To be burned unopened 
at my death.” 

He chose silence rather than vindication 
at the risk of having Anne Coleman’s 
name again brought into publicity. In 
that little parcel there was doubtless 
full exoneration, but at the end, as always, 
he nobly bore the blame. 

It happened that the letter he had 
written to her father was not in this 
package, but among his papers at Wheat- 
land- — -otherwise that pathetic request 
would also have been burned. 

Through all his life he remained true 
to Anne’s memory. Under the continual 
public attacks his grief became one that 
even his friends forebore to speak of, 
and he had a chivalrous regard for all 
women, because of his love for one. His 
social instincts were strong, his nature af- 
fectionate and steadfast, yet it was owing 
to his disappointment that he became 
President. At one time, when he was in 
London, he said to an intimate friend: 
“I never intended to engage in politics, 

tfbe 

aBacbclor 

president's 

Xotaltg 


Ii6 

^breads of ©res anb <3olb 

Ubc 

SSacbelot 

presibent’s 

Xoiealts 

but meant to follow my profession strictly. 
But my prospects and plans were all 
changed by a most sad event, which 
happened at Lancaster when I was a 
young man. As a distraction from my 
grief, and because I saw that through a 
political following I could secure the friends 

I then needed, I accepted a nomination.” 

A beautiful side of his character is 
shown in his devotion to his niece, Harriet 
Lane. He was to her always a faithful 
father. When she was away at school 
or otherwise separated from him, he wrote 
to her regularly, never failing to assure 
her of his affection, and received her love 
and confidence in return. In 1865, when 
she wrote to him of her engagement, he 
replied, in part, as follows: 

“I believe you say truly that nothing would 
have induced you to leave me, in good or 
evil fortune, if I had wished you to remain 
with me. 

“Such a wish on my part 'would be very 
selfish. You have long known my desire 
that you should marry whenever a suitor 
worthy of you should offer. Indeed, it has 


Ube Bachelor president's SLogaltg 

117 

been my strong desire to see you settled in 
the world before my death. You have now 
made your own unbiased choice; and from 
the character of Mr. Johnston, I anticipate 
for you a happy marriage, because I believe 
from your own good sense, you will conform 
to your conductor, and make him a good and 
loving wife.” 

The days passed in retirement at 
Wheatland were filled with quiet content. 
The end came as peacefully as the night 
itself. He awoke from a gentle sleep, 
murmured, “ 0 Lord, God Almighty, 
as Thou wilt!” and passed serenely into 
that other sleep, which knows not dreams. 

The impenetrable veil between us and 
eternity permits no lifting of its folds; 
there is no parting of its grey ness, save 
for a passage, but perhaps, in “that un- 
discovered country from whose bourne 
no traveller returns” Anne Coleman and 
her lover have met once more, and the 
long life of faithfulness at last has won 
her pardon. 

Ube 

JBacbelor 

prestoent’s 

lo^alts 


1 18 


Decoration 

Da? 

Decoration Da? 

'T'HE trees bow their heads in sorrow, 

1 While their giant branches wave, 

With the requiems of the forest, 

To the dead in a soldier’s grave. 

The pitying rain falls softly, 

In grief for a nation’s brave, 

Who died ’neath the scourge of treason 

And rest in a lonely grave. 

So, under the willow and cypress 

We lay our dead away, 

And cover their graves with blossoms, 

But the debt we never can pay. 

All nature is bathed in tears, 

On our sad Memorial day, 

When we crown the valour of heroes 

With flowers from the garments of May 




119 

Zbe ‘Romance of tbc Xlfe of 
Xincoln 

DY the slow passing of years humanity 
attains what is called the “historical 
perspective,” but it is still a mooted ques- 
tion as to how many years are necessary. 

We think of Lincoln as a great leader, 
and it is difficult to imagine him as a 
lover. He was at the helm of “the Ship 
of State” in the most fearful storm it ever 
passed through; he struck off the shackles 
of a fettered people, and was crowned with 
martyrdom; yet in spite of his greatness, 
he loved like other men. 

There is no record for Lincoln’s earlier 
years of the boyish love which comes to 
many men in their school days. The 
great passion of his life came to him in 
manhood but with no whit of its sweetness 
gone. Sweet Anne Rutledge! There are 

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those who remember her well, and to this 
day in speaking of her, their eyes fill with 
tears. A lady who knew her says: “Miss 
Rutledge had auburn hair, blue eyes, and 
a fair complexion. She was pretty, rather 
slender, and good-hearted, beloved by all 
who knew her. ” 

Before Lincoln loved her, she had a 
sad experience with another man. About 
the time that he came to New Salem, a 
young man named John McNeil drifted 
in from one of the Eastern States. He 
worked hard, was plucky and industrious, 
and soon accumulated a little property. 
He met Anne Rutledge when she was but 
seventeen and still in school, and he 
began to pay her especial attention which 
at last culminated in their engagement. 

He was about going back to New York 
for a visit and leaving he told Anne that 
his name was not McNeil, but McNamar — 
that he had changed his name so that his 
dependent family might not follow him 
and settle down upon him before he was 
able to support them. Now that he was 


Ebe iRomattce of tbe Xlfe of Xtncoln 

12 1 

in a position to aid his parents, brothers, 
and sisters, he was going back to do it and 
upon his return would make Anne his wife. 

For a long time she did not hear from 
him at all, and gossip was rife in New 
Salem. His letters became more formal 
and less frequent and finally ceased al- 
together. The girl’s proud spirit com- 
pelled her to hold her head high amid 
the impertinent questions of the neighbors. 

Lincoln had heard of the strange conduct 
of McNeil and concluding that there was 
now no tie between Miss Rutledge and 
her quondam lover, he began his own 
siege in earnest. Anne consented at last 
to marry him provided he gave her time 
to write to McNamar and obtain a release 
from the pledge which she felt was still 
binding upon her. 

She wrote, but there was no answer and 
at last she definitely accepted Lincoln. 

It was necessary for him to complete 
his law studies, and after that, he said, 
“Nothing on. God’s footstool shall keep us 
apart.” 

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He worked happily but a sore conflict 
seemed to be raging in Anne’s tender heart 
and conscience, and finally the strain told 
upon her to such an extent that when she 
was attacked by a fever, she had little 
strength to resist it. 

The summer waned and Anne’s life 
ebbed with it. At the very end of her 
illness, when all visitors were forbidden, 
she insisted upon seeing Lincoln. He 
went to her — and closed the door be- 
tween them and the world. It was his 
last hour with her. When he came out, 
his face was white with the agony of 
parting. 

A few days later, she died and Lincoln 
was almost insane with grief. He walked 
for hours in the woods, refused to eat, 
would speak to no one, and there settled 
upon him that profound melancholy which 
came back, time and again, during the 
after years. To one friend he said: “I 
cannot bear to think that the rain and 
storms will beat upon her grave. ” 

When the days were dark and stormy 



Ube Romance of tbe Xife of Xfncoln 

123 

he was constantly watched, as his friends 
feared he would take his own life. Finally, 
he was persuaded to go away to the house 
of a friend who lived at some distance, 
and here he remained until he was ready 
to face the world again. 

A few weeks after Anne’s burial, Mc- 
Namar returned to New Salem. On his 
arrival he met Lincoln at the post-office 
and both were sorely distressed. He 
made no explanation of his absence, and 
shortly seemed to forget about Miss 
Rutledge, but her grave was in Lincoln’s 
heart until the bullet of the assassin 

struck him down. 

In October of 1833, Lincoln met Miss 
Mary Owens, and admired her though 
not extravagantly. From all accounts, 
she was an unusual woman. She was tall, 
full in figure, with blue eyes and dark hair; 
she was well educated and quite popular 
in the little community. She was away 
for a time, but returned to New Salem in 
1836, and Lincoln at once began to call 
upon her, enjoying her wit and beauty. 

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At that time she was about twenty-eight 
years old. 

One day Miss Owens was out walking 
with a lady friend and when they came to 
the foot of a steep hill, Lincoln joined them. 
He walked behind with Miss Owens, and 
talked with her, quite oblivious to the 
fact that her friend was carrying a heavy 
baby. When they reached the summit, 
Miss Owens said laughingly: “You 
would not make a good husband, Abe.” 

They sat on the fence and a wordy 
discussion followed. Both were angry 
when they parted, and the breach was not 
healed for some time. It was poor policy 
to quarrel, since some time before he had 
proposed to Miss Owens, and she had 
asked for time in which to consider it 
before giving a final answer. His letters 
to her are not what one would call “love- 
letters.” One begins in this way: 

Mary: — I have been sick ever since my 
arrival, or I should have written sooner. It 
is but little difference, however, as I have very 
little even yet to write. And more, the 


TLbe IRomance of tbe %iU of Lincoln 

125 

longer I can avoid the mortification of 
looking in the post-office for your letter, and 
not finding it, the better. You see I am mad 
about that old letter yet. I don’t like very 
well to risk you again. I ’ll try you once 
more, anyhow. 

The remainder of the letter deals with 
political matters and is signed simply 
“Your Friend Lincoln.’ * 

In another letter written the following 
year he says to her: 

I am often thinking about what we said 
of your coming to live at Springfield. I am 
afraid you would not be satisfied. There is 
a great deal of flourishing about in carriages 
here, which it would be your doom to see 
without sharing it. You would have to be 
poor without the means of hiding your 
poverty. Do you believe you could bear that 
patiently? 

Whatever woman may cast her lot with 
mine, should any ever do so, it is my intention 
to do all in my power to make her happy and 
contented; and there is nothing I can imagine 
that would make me more unhappy than to 
fail in the effort. 

I know I should be much happier with you 
than the way I am, provided I saw no signs 

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ttbreabs of ©rep ant> ©olO 

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of discontent in you. What you have said 
to me may have been in the way of jest, or I 
may have misunderstood it. 

If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise 

I much wish you would think seriously before 
you decide. For my part, I have already 
decided. 

What I have said I will most positively abide 
by, provided you wish it. My opinion is 
that you would better not do it. You have 
not been accustomed to hardship, and it may 
be more severe than you now imagine. 

I know you are capable of thinking correctly 
upon any subject and if you deliberate 
maturely upon this before you decide, then 

I am willing to abide by your decision. 

Matters went on in this way for about 
three months; then they met again, 
seemingly without making any progress. 
On the day they parted, Lincoln wrote her 
another letter, evidently to make his own 
position clear and put the burden of 
decision upon her. 

If you feel yourself in any degree bound 
tome [he said], I am now willing to release 
you, provided you wish it ; while, on the other 
hand, I am willing and even anxious, to bind 
you faster, if I can be convinced that it will 



Ebe Romance of tbc Xlfe of Xfncoln 

127 

in any considerable degree add to your 
happiness. This, indeed, is the whole ques- 
tion with me. Nothing would make me more 
miserable than to believe you miserable — 
nothing more happy than to know you were 
so. 

In spite of his evident sincerity, it is not 
surprising to learn that a little later, Miss 
Owens definitely refused him. In April, of 
the following year, Lincoln wrote to his 
friend, Mrs. L. H. Browning, giving a full 
account of this grotesque courtship: 

I finally was forced to give it up [he wrote] 
at which I very unexpectedly found myself 
mortified almost beyond endurance. 

I was mortified it seemed to me in a hun- 
dred different ways. My vanity was deeply 
wounded by the reflection that I had so long 
been too stupid to discover her intentions, 
and at the same time never doubting that I 
understood them perfectly; and also, that 
she, whom I had taught myself to believe 
nobody else would have, had actually re- 
jected me, with all my fancied greatness. 

And then to cap the whole, I then, for the 
first time, began to suspect that I was really 
a little in love with her. But let it all go. 

I ’ll try and outlive it. Others have been 

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made fools of by the girls ; but this can never 
with truth be said of me. I most emphatically 
in this instance made a fool of myself. I 
have now come to the conclusion never again 
to think of marrying, and for this reason I 
can never be satisfied with any one who 
would be blockhead enough to have me! 

The gist of the matter seems to be that 
at heart Lincoln hesitated at matrimony, 
as other men have done, both before and 
since his time. In his letter to Mrs. 
Browning he speaks of his efforts to “put 
off the evil day for a time, which I really 
dreaded as much, perhaps more, than an 
Irishman does the halter ! ” 

But in 1839 Miss Mary Todd came to 
live with her sister, Mrs. Ninian Edwards, 
at Springfield. She was in her twenty-first 
year, and is described as “of average 
height and compactly built.” She had a 
well-rounded face, rich dark brown hair, 
and bluish grey eyes. No picture of her 
fails to show the full, well-developed chin, 
which, more than any other feature is 
an evidence of determination. She was 
strong, proud, passionate, gifted with a 



Ube IRomance of tbe Xtfe of Xtncoln 

129 

keen sense of the ridiculous, well educated, 
and swayed only by her own imperious 
will. 

Lincoln was attracted at once, and 
strangely enough, Stephen A. Douglas 
crossed his wooing. For a time the two 
men were rivals, the pursuit waxing more 
furious day by day. Some one asked Miss 
Todd which of them she intended to marry, 
and she answered laughingly: “The one 
who has the best chance of becoming 
President ! ” 

She is said, however, to have refused the 
“Little Giant’ ’ on account of his lax 
morality and after that the coast was clear 
for Lincoln. Miss Todd’s sister tells us 
that “he was charmed by Mary’s wit and 
fascinated by her quick sagacity, her 
will, her nature, and culture.” “I have 
happened in the room,” she says, “where 
they were sitting, often and often, and 
Mary led the conversation. Lincoln 
would listen, and gaze on her as if drawn 
by some superior power — irresistibly so; 
he listened, but scarcely ever said a word. ” 

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The affair naturally culminated in an 
engagement, and the course of love was 
running smoothly, when a distracting 
element appeared in the shape of Miss 
Matilda Edwards, the sister of Mrs. 
Edwards’s husband. She was young and 
fair, and Lincoln 'was pleased with her 
appearance. For a time he tried to go on 
as before, but his feelings were too strong 
to be concealed. Mr. Edwards endeavoured 
to get his sister to marry Lincoln’s friend, 
Speed, but she refused both Speed and 
Douglas. 

It is said that Lincoln once went to Miss 
Todd’s house, intending to break the en- 
gagement, but his real love proved too 
strong to allow him to do it. 

His friend, Speed, thus describes the con- 
clusion of this episode. ‘ ‘ Well, old fellow, ” 

I said, “did you do as you intended?” 

“Yes, I did,” responded Lincoln 
thoughtfully, “and when I told Mary I 
did not love her, she, wringing her hands, 
said something about the deceiver being 
himself deceived.” 


ttbe IRomaitce of tbe Xtfe of Xfncoln 

131 

“What else did you say?” 

“To tell you the truth, Speed, it was 
too much for me. I found the tears 
trickling down my own cheeks. I caught 
her in my arms and kissed her. ” 

“And that ’s how you broke the engage- 
ment. Y our conduct was tantamount to a 
renewal of it!” 

And indeed this was true, and the lovers 
again considered the time of marriage. 

There is a story by Herndon to the 
effect that a wedding was arranged for the 
first day of January, 1841, and then when 
the hour came Lincoln did not appear, and 
was found wandering alone in the woods 
plunged in the deepest melancholy — a 
melancholy bordering upon insanity. 

This story, however, has no foundation; 
in fact, most competent witnesses agree 
that no such marriage date was fixed, 
although some date may have been 
considered. 

It is certain, however, that the relations 
between Lincoln and Miss Todd were 
broken off for a time. He did go to 

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Uforea&s of ©res anfc ©ol& 

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Kentucky for a while, but this trip cer- 
tainly was not due to insanity. Lincoln 
was never so mindless as some of his 
biographers would have us believe, and 
the breaking of the engagement was due 
to perfectly natural causes — the difference 
in temperament of the lovers, and Lincoln’s 
inclination to procrastinate. After a time 
the strained relations gradually improved. 
They met occasionally in the parlor of a 
friend, Mrs. Francis, and it was through 
Miss Todd that the duel with Shields 

came about. 

She wielded a ready and a sarcastic pen, 
and safely hidden behind a pseudonym 
and the promise of the editor, she wrote a 
series of satirical articles for the local 
paper, entitled: “ Letters from Lost Town- 
ships.” In one of these she touched up 
Mr. Shields, the Auditor of State, to such 
good purpose that believing that Lincoln 
had written the article, he challenged him 
to a duel. Lincoln accepted the challenge 
and chose “cavalry broadswords” as the 
weapons, but the intervention of friends 


Sfoe iRomance of tbe Xife of Xtncoln 

133 

prevented any fighting, although he always 
spoke of the affair as his “duel. ” 

As a result of this altercation with 
Shields, Miss Todd and the future Presi- 
dent came again into close friendship, and 
a marriage was decided upon. 

The license was secured, the minister 
sent for, and on November 4, 1842, they 
became man and wife. 

It is not surprising that more or less 
unhappiness obtained in their married 
life, for Mrs. Lincoln was a woman of 
strong character, proud, fiery, and deter- 
mined. Her husband was subject to 
strange moods and impulses, and the 
great task which God had committed to 
him made him less amenable to family 

cares. 

That married life which began at the 
Globe Tavern was destined to end at the 
White House, after years of vicissitude and 
serious national trouble. Children were 
bom unto them, and all but the eldest 
died. Great responsibilities were laid upon 
Lincoln and even though he met them 

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of tbe life 
of lincoln 

bravely it was inevitable that his family 
should also suffer. 

Upon the face of the Commander-in- 
chief rested nearly always a mighty sad- 
ness, except when it was occasionally 
illumined by his wonderful smile, or when 
the light of his sublime faith banished the 
clouds. 

Storm and stress, suffering and heart- 
ache, reverses and defeat were the portion 
of the Leader, and when Victory at last 
perched upon the National standard, her 
beautiful feet were all drabbled in blood, 
and the most terrible war on the world's 
records passed down into history. In the 
hour of triumph, with his great purpose 
nobly fulfilled, death came to the great 
Captain. 

The United Republic is his monument, 
and that rugged, yet gracious figure, 
hallowed by martyrdom, stands before the 
eyes of his countrymen forever serene and 
calm, while his memory lingers like a 
benediction in the hearts of both friend 
and foe. 



135 

Silent Gbanhsgiving 

O HE is standing alone by the window — 

O A woman, faded and old, 

But the wrinkled face was lovely once, 

And the silvered hair was gold. 

As out in the darkness, the snow-flakes 

Are falling so softly and slow, 

Her thoughts fly back to the summer of life, 
And the scenes of long ago. 

Before the dim eyes, a picture comes, 

She has seen it again and again; 

The tears steal over the faded cheeks, 

And the lips that quiver with pain, 

For she hears once more the trumpet call 

And sees the battle array 

As they march to the hills with gleaming 
swords — 

Can she ever forget that day? 

She has given her boy to the land she loves, 
How hard it had been to part ! 

And to-night she stands at the window alone, 
With a new-made grave in her heart. 

Silent 

XTbanfee* 

giving 


136 

Ubceabs of ©reg ant> ©olb 

Silent 

Ubanfes* 

giving 

And yet, it ’s the day of Thanksgiving — 

But her child, her darling was slain 

By the shot and shell of the rebel guns — 

Can she ever be thankful again? 

She thinks once more of his fair young face, 
And the cannon’s murderous roll, 

While hatred springs in her passionate heart, 
And bitterness into her soul. 

Then out of the death-like stillness 

There comes a battle-cry — 

The song that led those marching feet 

To conquer, or to die. 

“Yes, rally round the flag, boys!” 

With tears she hears the song, 

And her thoughts go back to the boys in blue, 
That army, brave and strong — 

Then Peace creeps in amid the pain. 

The dead are as dear as the living, 

And back of the song is the silence, 

And back of the silence — Thanksgiving. 



i37 

11 n tbe jflasb of a 3ewel 

/CERTAIN barbaric instincts in the 
human race seem to be ineradicable. 
It is but a step from the painted savage, 
gorgeous in his beads and wampum, to 
my lady of fashion, who wears a tiara 
upon her stately head, chains and collars 
of precious stones at her throat, bracelets 
on her white arms, and innumerable rings 
upon her dainty fingers. Wise men may 
decry the baleful fascination of jewels, but, 
none the less, the jeweller’s window con- 
tinues to draw the crowd. 

Like brilliant moths that appear only at 
night, jewels are tabooed in the day hours. 
Dame Fashion sternly condemns gems in 
the day time as evidence of hopelessly 
bad taste. No jewels are permitted in 
any ostentatious way, and yet a woman 
may, even in good society, wear a few 

In tbe 
jflasb of a 
Jewel 


138 

XTbreabs of ©res ant> 0ol£> 

In tbe 
jflasb of a 
Sewel 

thousand dollars’ worth of precious stones, 
without seeming to be overdressed, pro- 
vided the occasion is appropriate, as in the 
case of functions held in darkened rooms. 

In the evening when shoulders are bared 
and light feet tread fantastic measures in a 
ball room, which is literally a bower of 
roses, there seems to be no limit as regards 
jewels. In such an assembly a woman 
may, without appearing overdressed, adorn 
herself with diamonds amounting to a small 
fortune. 

During a season of grand opera in 
Chicago, a beautiful white-haired woman 
sat in the same box night after night 
without attracting particular attention, 
except as a woman of acknowledged 
beauty. At a glance it might be thought 
that her dress, although elegant, was rather 
simple, but an enterprising reporter dis- 
covered that her gown of rare old lace, 
with the pattern picked out here and there 
with chip diamonds, had cost over fifty-five 
thousand dollars. The tiara, collar, and 
few rings she wore, swelled the grand 


In tbe jflasb of a Jewel 

139 

total to more than three hundred thousand 
dollars. 

Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, 
pearls, and opals — these precious stones 
have played a tremendous part in the 
world’s history. Empires have been bar- 
tered for jewels, and for a string of pearls 
many a woman has sold her soul. It is 
said that pearls mean tears, yet they are 
favourite gifts for brides, and no maiden 
fears to wear them on her way up the aisle 
where her bridegroom waits. 

A French writer claims that if it be true 
that the oyster can be forced to make as 
many pearls as may be required of it, the 
jewel will become so common that my lady 
will no longer care to decorate herself with 
its pale splendour. Whether or not this 
will ever be the case, it is certain that 
few gems have played a more conspicu- 
ous part in history than this. 

Not only have we Cleopatra’s reckless 
draught, but there is also a story of a noble 
Roman who dissolved in vinegar and 
drank a pearl worth a million sesterces, 

In tbe 
JTlaeb of a 
Jewel 



140 

fEbreabs of ©res an& ©olb 

fn the 
fflash of a 
3ewel 

which had adorned the ear of the woman he 

loved. But the cold-hearted chemist de- 
clares that an acid which could dissolve 
a pearl would also dissolve the person who 
swallowed it, so those two legends must 
vanish with many others that have shriv- 
elled up under the searching gaze of 
science. 

There is another interesting story about 
the destruction of a pearl. During the 
reign of Elizabeth, a haughty Spanish 
ambassador was boasting at the Court of 
England of the great riches of his king. 
Sir Thomas Gresham, wishing to get even 
with the bragging Castilian, replied that 
some of Elizabeth’s subjects would spend 
as much at one meal as Philip’s whole 
kingdom could produce in a day! To 
prove this statement, Sir Thomas invited 
the Spaniard to dine with him, and having 
ground up a costly Eastern pearl the 
Englishman coolly swallowed it. 

Going back to the dimness of early 
times, we find that many of the ancients 
preferred green gems to all other stones. 


In tbe jflasb of a Jewel 

141 

The emerald was thought to have many 
virtues. It kept evil spirits at a distance, 
it restored failing sight, it could unearth 
mysteries, and when it turned yellow its 
owner knew to a certainty that the woman 
he loved was false to him. 

The ruby flashes through all Oriental 
romances. This stone banished sadness 
and sin. A serpent with a ruby in its 
mouth was considered an appropriate 
betrothal ring. 

The most interesting ruby of history is 
set in the royal diadem of England. It is 
called the Black Prince’s ruby. In the 
days when the Moors ruled Granada, 
when both the men and the women of 
that race sparkled with gems, and even 
the ivory covers of their books were some- 
times set with precious stones, the Spanish 
king, Don Pedro the Cruel, obtained this 
stone from a Moorish prince whom he had 
caused to be murdered. 

It was given by Don Pedro to the Black 
Prince, and half a century later it glowed 
on the helmet of that most picturesque 

In tbc 
tflasb of a 
Jewel 


I 4 2 

Hbreabs of Gr eg ant> Goto 

fn tbe 
flasb of a 

Sewel 

of England’s kings, Henry V, at the battle 
of Agincourt. 

The Scotchman, Sir James Melville, saw 
this jewel during his famous visit to the 
Court of Elizabeth, when the Queen showed 
him some of the treasures in her cabinet, 
the most valued of these being the portrait 
of Leicester. 

“She showed me a fair ruby like a great 
racket ball,’’ he says. “I desired she 
would send to my queen either this or the 
Earl of Leicester’s picture.” But Elizabeth 
cherished both the ruby and the portrait, 
so she sent Marie Stuart a diamond 

instead. 

Poets have lavished their fancies upon 
the origin of the opal, but no one seems to 
know why it is considered unlucky. Women 
who laugh at superstitions of all kinds are 
afraid to wear an opal, and a certain 
jeweller at the head of one of the largest 
establishments in a great city has carried 
his fear to such a length that he will not 
keep one in his establishment — not only 
this, but it is said that he has even been 


fln tbe iflasb of a Jewel 

143 

known to throw an opal ring out of the 
window. The offending stone had been 
presented to his daughter, but this fact 
was not allowed to weigh against his 
superstition. It is understood when he 
entertains that none of his guests will wear 
opals, and this wish is faithfully respected. 

The story goes that the opal was discov- 
ered at the same time that kissing was in- 
vented. A young shepherd on the hills of 
Greece found a pretty pebble one day, and 
wishing to give it to a beautiful shepherdess 
who stood near him, he let her take it from 
his lips with hers, as the hands of neither 
of them were clean. 

Many a battle royal has been waged for 
the possession of a diamond, and several 
famous diamonds are known by name 
throughout the world. Among these are 
the Orloff, the Koh-i-noor, the Regent, the 
Real Paragon, and the Sanci, besides the 
enormous stone which was sent to King 
Edward from South Africa. This has 
been cut but not yet named. 

The Orloff is perhaps the most brilliant 

Hn tbc 
fflaab of a 
Jewel 



144 

Ubrea&s of ©res ant> ©olb 

fn tbe 
fflasb of a 
Jewel 

of all the famous group. Tradition says 
that it was once one of the eyes of an Indian 
idol and was supposed to have been the 
origin of all light. A French grenadier 
of Pondicherry deserted his regiment, 
adopted the religion and manners of the 
Brahmans, worshipped at the shrine of 
the idol whose eyes were light itself, stole 
the brightest one, and escaped. 

A sea captain bought it from him for 
ten thousand dollars and sold it to a Jew 
for sixty thousand dollars. An Armenian 
named Shafras bought it from the Jew, 
and after a time Count Orloff paid 
$382,500 for this and a title of Russian 
nobility. 

He presented the wonderful refractor 
of light to the Empress Catherine who 
complimented Orloff by naming it after 
him. This magnificent stone, which weighs 
one hundred and ninety-five carats, now 
forms the apex of the Russian crown. 

The Real Paragon was in 1861 the 
property of the Rajah of Mattan. It was 
then uncut and weighed three hundred 


Un tbe fflasb of a Jewel 

145 

and seven carats. The Governor of Bata- 
via was very anxious to bring it to Europe. 
He offered the Rajah one hundred and 
fifty thousand dollars and two warships 
with their guns and ammunition, but the 
offer was contemptuously refused. Very 
little is known of its history. It is now 
owned by the Government of Portugal 
and is pledged as security for a very large 
sum of money. 

It has been said that one could carry 
the Koh-i-noor in one end of a silk purse 
and balance it in the other end with a gold 
eagle and a gold dollar, and never feel the 
difference in weight, while the value of the 
gem in gold could not be transported in 
less than four dray loads! 

Tradition says that Kama, King of 
Anga, owned it three thousand years ago. 
The King of Lahore, one of the Indies, 
heard that the King of Cabul, one of the 
lesser princes, had in his possession the 
largest and purest diamond in the world. 
Lahore invited Cabul to visit him, and 
when he had him in his power, demanded 

flit tbe 
lasb of a 
3ewel 


146 

Ubrea&s of Ores anb Oolb 

In tbe 

Jf la eb of a 
Jewel 

the treasure. Cabul, however, had sus- 
pected treachery, and brought an imita- 
tion of the Koh-i-noor. He of course 
expostulated, but finally surrendered the 
supposed diamond. 

The lapidary who was employed to 
mount it pronounced it a piece of crystal, 
whereupon the royal old thief sent soldiers 
who ransacked the palace of the King of 
Cabul from top to bottom, in vain. At 
last, however, after a long search, a servant 
betrayed his master, and the gem was 
found in a pile of ashes. 

After the annexation of the Punjab in 
1849, the Koh-i-noor was given up to the 
British, and at a meeting of the Punjab 
Board was handed to John (afterward 
Lord) Lawrence who placed it in his 
waistcoat pocket and forgot the treasure. 
While at a public meeting some time later, 
he suddenly remembered it, hurried home 
and asked his servant if he had seen a small 
box which he had left in his waistcoat pocket. 

“Yes, sahib, ” the man replied ; “ I found 
it, and put in your drawer. ” 


In tbe jflasb ot a Jewel 

147 

“Bring it here,” said Lawrence, and the 
servant produced it. 

“Now,” said his master, “open it and 
see what it contains. ” 

The old native obeyed, and after re- 
moving the folds of linen, he said: “There 
is nothing here but a piece of glass.” 

“Good,” said Lawrence, with a sigh of 
relief, “you can leave it with me. ” 

The Sanci diamond belonged to Charles 
the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who wore 
it in his hat at the battle of Nancy, where 
he fell. A Swiss soldier found it and sold 
it for a gulden to a clergyman of Baltimore. 
It passed into the possession of Anton, 
King of Portugal, who was obliged to sell it, 
the price being a million francs. 

It shortly afterward became the property 
of a Frenchman named Sanci, whose 
descendant being sent as an ambassador, 
was required by the King to give the 
diamond as a pledge. The servant carry- 
ing it to the King was attacked by robbers 
on the way and murdered, not, however, 
until he had swallowed the diamond. His 

f n tbc 
Jfla«b of a 
Sewd 



148 

TTbreabs of ©res atiO ©olfc 

fn tbe 
jflasb of a 
Jewel 

master, feeling sure of his faithfulness, 
caused the body to be opened and found 
the gem in his stomach. This gem came 
into the possession of the Crown of Eng- 
land, and James II carried it with him to 
France in 1688. 

From James it passed to his friend and 
patron, Louis XIV, and to his descendants, 
until the Duchess of Berry at the Restora- 
tion sold it to the Demidoffs for six hun- 
dred and twenty-five thousand francs. 

It was worth a million and a half of 

francs when Prince Paul Demidoff wore 
it in his hat at a great fancy ball given in 
honour of Count Walewski, the Minister 
of Napoleon III — and lost it during the 
ball! Everybody was wild with excite- 
ment when the loss was announced — 
everybody but Prince Paul Demidoff. 
After an hour's search the Sanci was 
found under a chair. 

After more than two centuries, ‘‘the 
Regent is,” as Saint-Simon described it in 

1 7 1 7 , * ‘ a brilliant, inestimable and unique. ’ ’ 
Its density is rather higher than that of the 


Iln tbe iflasb of a Jewel 

149 

usual diamond, and it weighs upwards of 
one hundred and thirty carats. This stone 
was found in India by a slave, who, to 
conceal it, made a wound in his leg and 
wrapped the gem in the bandages. Reach- 
ing the coast, he intrusted himself and his 
secret to an English captain, who took the 
gem, threw the slave overboard, and sold 
his ill-gotten gains to a native merchant 
for five thousand dollars. 

It afterwards passed into the hands of 
Pitt, Governor of St. George, who sold it 
in 1717 to the Duke of Orleans, then 
Regent of France, for $675,000. Before 
the end of the eighteenth century the 
stone had more than trebled in worth, and 
we can only wonder what it ought to bring 
now with its “ perfect whiteness, its regular 
form, and its absolute freedom from stain 
or flaw!” 

The collection belonging to the Sultan 
of Turkey, which is probably the finest in 
the world, dates prior to the discovery of 
America, and undoubtedly came from Asia. 
One Turkish pasha alone left to the Empire 

In tbe 
fflasb of a 
Sewel 


150 

UbreaOs of Greg anO GoIO 

In tb< 

f Iaeb of a 
Sewel 

at his death, seven table-cloths embroidered 
with diamonds, and bushels of fine pearls. 

In the war with Russia, in 17 78, Turkey 
borrowed $30,000,000 from the Ottoman 
Bank on the security of the crown jewels. 
The cashier of the bank was admitted to 
the treasure-chamber and was told to help 
himself until he had enough to secure his 
advances. 

“I selected enough,” he says, “to secure 
the bank against loss in any event, but 
the removal of the gems I took made no 
appreciable gap in the accumulation. ” 

In the imperial treasury of the Sultan, 
the first room is the richest in notable 
objects. The most conspicuous of these 
is a great throne or divan of beaten gold, 
occupying the entire centre of the room, 
and set with precious stones : pearls, rubies, 
and emeralds, thousands of them, covering 
the entire surface in a geometrical mosaic 
pattern. This specimen of barbaric magni- 
ficence was part of the spoils of war taken 
from one of the shahs of Persia. 

Much more interesting and beautiful, 


Hn tbe Jflasb o( a Jewel 

151 

however, is another canopied throne or 
divan, placed in the upper story of the 
same building. This is a genuine work of 
old Turkish art which dates from some time 
during the second half of the sixteenth 
century. It is a raised square seat, on 
which the Sultan sat cross-legged. At 
each angle there rises a square vertical 
shaft supporting a canopy, with a minaret 
or pinnacle surmounted by a rich gold and 
jewelled finial. The entire height of the 
throne is nine or ten feet. The materials 
are precious woods, ebony, sandal-wood, 
etc., with shell, mother-of-pearl, silver, and 
gold. 

The entire piece is decorated inside and 
out with a branching floriated design in 
mother-of-pearl marquetry, in the style 
of the fine early Persian painted tiles, and 
the centre of each of the principal leaves 
and flowers is set with splendid cabochon 
gems, fine balass rubies, emeralds, sap- 
phires, and pearls. 

Pendant from the roof of the canopy, and 
in a position which would be directly over 

In tbe 
flaeb of a 
Jewel 


152 

ftbreabs of Ores an& <Bol£> 

In tbe 
iflasb of a 
Sewel 

the head of the Sultan, is a golden cord, on 
which is hung a large heart-shaped orna- 
ment of gold, chased and perforated with 
floriated work, and beneath it hangs a 
huge uncut emerald of fine colour, but of 
triangular shape, four inches in diameter, 
and an inch and a half thick. 

Richly decorated arms and armour form 
a conspicuous feature of the contents of all 
three of these rooms. The most notable 
work in this class in the first apartment is a 
splendid suit of mixed chain and plate mail, 
wonderfully damascened and jewelled, 
worn by Sultan Murad IV, in 1638, at the 
taking of Bagdad. 

Near to it is a scimetar, probably a part 
of the panoply of the same monarch. 
Both the hilt and the greater part of the 
broad scabbard of this weapon are in- 
crusted with large table diamonds, forming 
checkerwork, all the square stones being 
regularly and symmetrically cut, of exactly 
the same size — upward of half an inch 
across. There are many other sumptuous 
works of art which are similarly adorned. 


In tbe jplasb of a Jewel 

153 

Rightfully first among the world's splen- 
did coronets stands the State Crown of 
England. It was made in 1838 with 
jewels taken from old crowns and others 
furnished by command of the Queen. 

It consists of diamonds, pearls, rubies, 
sapphires, and emeralds, set in silver and 
gold. It has a crimson velvet cap with 
ermine border; it is lined with white silk 
and weighs about forty ounces. The lower 
part of the band above the ermine border 
consists of a row of one hundred and ninety- 
nine pearls, and the upper part of this 
band has one hundred and twelve pearls, 
between which, in the front of the crown, 
is a large sapphire which was purchased 
for it by George IV. 

At the back is a sapphire of smaller 
size and six others, three on each side, 
between which are eight emeralds. Above 
and below the sapphires are fourteen 
diamonds, and around the eight emeralds 
are one hundred and twenty-eight dia- 
monds. Between the emeralds and sap- 
phires are sixteen ornaments, containing 

tin tbe 
Iflasb of a 
Jewel 



154 

ttbreabs o( ©re? anb ©olb 

In tbe 
jflasb of a 
3ewd 

one hundred and sixty diamonds. Above 
the band are eight sapphires, surmounted 
by eight diamonds, between which are eight 
festoons, consisting of one hundred and 
forty-eight diamonds. 

In the front of the crown and in the 

centre of a diamond Maltese cross is the 
famous ruby of the Black Prince. Around 
this ruby to form the cross are seventy- 
five brilliant diamonds. Three other Mal- 
tese crosses, forming the two sides and 
back of the crown, have emerald centres, 
and each contains between one and two 

hundred brilliant diamonds. Between the 

four Maltese crosses are four ornaments in 
the form of the French fleur-de-lis , with 
four rubies in the centre, and surrounded 
by rose diamonds. 

From the Maltese crosses issue four im- 
perial arches, composed of oak leaves and 
acorns embellished with hundreds of mag- 
nificent jewels. From the upper part of 
the arches are suspended four large pend- 
ant pear-shaped pearls, with rose diamond 
caps. Above the arch stands the mound, 


Tit tbe jplasb of a Jewel 

155 

thickly set with brilliants. The cross on 
the summit has a rose cut sapphire in the 
centre, surrounded by diamonds. 

A gem is said to represent “ condensed 
wealth,” and it is also condensed history. 
The blood of a ruby, the faint moonlight 
lustre of a pearl, the green glow of an 
emerald, and the dazzling white light of a 
diamond — in what unfailing magic lies 
their charm? Tiny bits of crystal as they 
appear to be — even the Orloff diamond 
could be concealed in a child’s hand — yet 
kings and queens have played for stakes 
like these. Battle and murder have been 
done for them, honour bartered and 
kingdoms lost, but the old magic beauty 
never fades, and to-day, as always, sin and 
beauty, side, by side, are mirrored in the 
flash of a jewel. 

In tbe 
Jlaeb of a 
Jewel 



156 


Ube 

Coming of 
Sblp 

Cbe Coming of fll>t> Sblp 

OTRAIGHT to the sunrise my ship’s sails 

O are leaning, 

Brave at the masthead her new colours fly; 

Down on the shore, her lips trembling with 
meaning, 

Love waits, but unanswering, I heed not her 
cry. 

The gold of the East shall be mine in full 
measure, 

My ship shall come home overflowing with 
treasure, 

And love is not need, but only a pleasure, 

So I wait for my ship to come in. 

Silent, half troubled, I wait in the shadow, 

No sail do I see between me and the dawn; 

Out in the blue and measureless meadow, 

My ship wanders widely, but Love has not 
gone. 

“My arms await thee,” she cries in her 
pleading, 

“Why wait for its coming, when I am thy 
needing?” 


Cbe Coming of tog Sbip 

157 

I pass by in stillness, all else unheeding, 

And wait for my ship to come in. 

See, in the East, surrounded by splendour, 

My sail glimmers whitely in crimson and blue ; 

I turn back to Love, my heart growing tender, 

“Now I have gold and leisure for you. 

Jewels she brings for thy white breast’s 
adorning, 

Measures of gold beyond a queen’s scorn- 
ing”— 

To-night I shall rest — joy comes in the 
morning, 

So I wait for my ship to come in. 

Remembering waters beat cold on the shore, 

And the grey sea in sadness grows old ; 

I listen in vain for Love’s pleading once more, 

While my ship comes with spices and gold. 

The sea birds cry hoarsely, for this is their 
songing, 

On masthead and colours their white wings 
are thronging, 

But my soul throbs deep with love and with 
longing, 

And I wait for my ship to come in. 

TCb e 

Coming of 
ADS Sbip 


158 


IRomancc 
ant> the 
postman 

IRomancc ant> tbe postman 

A LETTER! Do the charm and un- 
** certainty of it ever fade ? Who 
knows what may be written upon the 
pages within! 

Far back, in a dim, dream-haunted 
childhood, the first letter came to me. It 
was “a really, truly letter,* * properly 
stamped and addressed, and duly delivered 
by the postman. With what wonder the 
chubby fingers broke the seal! It did not 
matter that there was an inclosure to one’s 
mother, and that the thing itself was 
written by an adoring relative; it was a 
personal letter, of private and particular 
importance, and that day the postman 
assumed his rightful place in one’s affairs. 

In the treasure box of many a grand- 
mother is hidden a pathetic scrawl that 
the baby made for her and called ‘ ‘ a letter.” 


IRomance ant) tbe ©ostman 

159 

To the alien eye, it is a mere tangle of 
pencil marks, and the baby himself, grown 
to manhood, with children of his own, 
would laugh at the yellowed message, 
which is put away with his christening 
robe and his first shoes, but to one, at least, 
it speaks with a deathless voice. 

It is written in books and papers that 
some unhappy mortals are swamped with 
mail. As a lady recently wrote to the 
President of the United States: “I suppose 
you get so many letters that when you see 
the postman coming down the street, you 
don’t care whether he has anything for 
you or not. ” 

Indeed, the President might well think 
the universe had gone suddenly wrong if 
the postman passed him by, but there are 
compensations in everything. The First 
Gentleman of the Republic must inevitably 
miss the pleasant emotions which letters 
bring to the most of us. 

The clerks and carriers in the business 
centres may be pardoned if they lose sight 
of the potentialities of the letters that pass 

IRomance 
ant> tbe 
Postman 



i6o 

UbrcaOs of ©r eg anl» (Bold 

iRomance 
anli the 
postman 

through their hands. When a skyscraper 
is a postal district in itself, there is no time 
for the man in grey to think of the burden 
he carries, save as so many pounds of 
dead weight, becoming appreciably lighter 
at each stop. But outside the hum and 
bustle, on quiet streets and secluded by- 
ways, there are faces at the windows, 
watching eagerly for the mail. 

The progress of the postman is akin to a 
Roman triumph, for in his leathern pack 
lies Fate. Long experience has given him 
a sixth sense, as if the letters breathed a 
hint of their contents through their super- 
scriptions. 

The business letter, crisp and to the 
point, has an atmosphere of its own, even 
where cross lines of typewriting do not 
show through the envelope. 

The long, rambling, friendly hand is 
distinctive, and if it has been carried in the 
pocket a long time before mailing, the 
postman knows that the writer is a married 
woman with a foolish trust in her husband. 

Circulars addressed mechanically, at so 


■Romance and tbe postman 

161 

much a thousand, never deceive the post- 
man, though the recipient often opens 
them with pleasurable sensations, which 
immediately sink to zero. And the love- 
letters! The carrier is a veritable Sher- 
lock Holmes when it comes to them. 

Gradually he becomes acquainted with 
the inmost secrets of those upon his route. 
Friendship, love, and marriage, absence 
and return, death, and one’s financial con- 
dition, are all as an open book to the man in 
grey. Invitations, cards, wedding an- 
nouncements, forlorn little letters from 
those to whom writing is not as easy as 
speech, childish epistles with scrap pictures 
pasted on the outside, all give an inkling 
of their contents to the man who delivers 

them. 

When the same bill comes to the same 
house for a long and regular period, then 
ceases, even the carrier must feel relieved 
to know that it has been paid. When he 
is n’t too busy, he takes a friendly look at 
the postal cards, and sometimes saves a 
tenant in a third flat the weariness of two 

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and tbe 
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1 62 

UbreaOs of (Breg ant> (Bolt> 

IRcmance 
anu tbe 
postman 

flights of stairs by shouting the news up the 
tube! 

If the dweller in a tenement has ingratia- 
ting manners, he may learn how many 
papers, and letters are being stuffed into 
the letter-box, by a polite inquiry down 
the tube when the bell rings. Through the 
subtle freemasonry of the postman’s voice 
a girl knows that her lover has not forgot- 
ten her — and her credit is good for the 

4 ‘two cents due” if the tender missive is 
overweight. 

‘‘All the world loves a lover,” and even 
the busy postman takes a fatherly interest 
in the havoc wrought by Cupid along his 
route. The little blind god knows neither 
times nor seasons — all alike are his own — 
but the man in grey, old and spectacled 
though he may be, is his confidential 
messenger. 

Love-letters are seemingly immortal. 

A clay tablet on which one of the Pharaohs 
wrote, asking for the heart and hand of a 
beautiful foreign princess, is now in the 
British Museum. But suppose the post- 


■Romance anO tbe postman 

163 

man had not been sure-footed, and all the 
clay letters had been smashed into frag- 
ments in a single grand catastrophe ! What 
a stir in high places, what havoc in Church 
and State, and how many fond hearts 
broken, if the postman had fallen down ! 

“Nothing feeds the flame like a letter, ” 
said Emerson; “it has intent, personality, 
secrecy.” Flimsy and frail as it is, so 
easily tom or destroyed, the love-letter 
many times outlasts the love. Even the 
Father of his Country, though he has been 
dead this hundred years or more, has left 
behind him a love-letter, ragged and faded, 
but still legible, beginning: “My Dearest 
Life and Love.” 

“Matter is indestructible,” so the 
scientists say, but what of the love-letter 
that is reduced to ashes? Does its passion 
live again in some far-off violet flame, or, 
rising from its dust, bloom once more in a 
fragrant rose, to touch the lips of another 
love? 

In countless secret places, the tender 
missives are hidden, for the lover must 

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and tbe 
ftostman 



164 

ZEbreabs of ©teg an& ©olb 

Romance 
anb tbe 
postman 

always keep his joy in tangible form, to be 
sure that it was not a dream. They fly 
through the world by day and night, like 
white- winged birds that can say, “I love 
you” — over mountain, hill, stream, and 
plain; past sea and lake and river, through 
the desert’s fiery heat and amid the 
throbbing pulses of civilisation, with never 
a mistake, to bring exquisite rapture to 
another heart and wings of light to the 
loved one’s soul. 

Under the pillow of the maiden, her 
lover’s letter brings visions of happiness 
too great for the human heart to hold. 
Even in her dreams, her fingers tighten 
upon his letter — the visible assurance of 
his unchanging and unchangeable love. 

When the bugle sounds the charge, and 
dimly through the flash and flame the 
flag signals “ Follow!” many a heart, 
leaping to answer with the hot blood of 
youth, finds a sudden tenderness in the 
midst of its high courage, from the loving 
letter which lies close to the soldier’s 

breast. 


■Romance anb tbe postman 

165 

Bunker Hill and Gettysburg, Moscow 
and the Wilderness, Waterloo, Mafeking, 
and San Juan — the old blood-stained fields 
and the modern scenes of terror have 
all alike known the same message and 
the same thrill. The faith and hope of the 
living, the kiss and prayer of the dying, the 
cries of the wounded, and the hot tears of 
those who have parted forever, are on the 
blood-stained pages of the love-letters that 
have gone to war. 

“ Ich liebe Dich } ” 11 Je t'aime , ” or, in our 
dear English speech, 11 1 love you,” — it is 
all the same, for the heart knows the 
universal language, the words of which are 
gold, bedewed with tears that shine like 
precious stones. 

Every attic counts old love-letters among 
its treasures, and when the rain beats on 
the roof and grey swirls of water are blown 
against the pane, one may sit among the 
old trunks and boxes and bring to light 
the loves of days gone by. 

The little hair -cloth trunk, with its 
rusty lock and broken hinges, brings to 

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an& tbe 
postman 



1 66 

TIbrea&s of <3rep ant> <Bol5 

IRomanc* 
anb tbe 
postman 

mind a rosy-cheeked girl in a poke bonnet, 
who went a- visiting in the stage-coach. 
Inside is the bonnet itself — white, with a 
gorgeous trimming of pink “ lute -string ” 
ribbon, which has faded into ashes of roses 
at the touch of the kindly years. 

From the trunk comes a musty fragrance 
— lavender, sweet clover, rosemary, thyme, 
and the dried petals of roses that have 
long since crumbled to dust. Scraps of 
brocade and taffeta, yellowed lingerie, and 
a quaint old wedding gown, daguerreo- 
types in ornate cases, and then the letters, 
tied with faded ribbon, in a package by 
themselves. 

The fingers unconsciously soften to their 
task, for the letters are old and yellow, and 
the ink has faded to brown. Every one 
was cut open with the scissors, not hastily 
tom according to our modem fashion, but 
in a slow and seemly manner, as befits a 
solemn occasion. 

Perhaps the sweet face of a great- 
grandmother grew much perplexed at the 
sight of a letter in an unfamiliar hand, and 


■Romance an& tbe postman 

167 

perhaps, too, as is the way of womankind, 
she studied the outside a long time before 
she opened it. As the months passed by, 
the handwriting became familiar, but a 
coquettish grandmother may have flirted 
a bit with the letter, and put it aside — 
until she could be alone. 

All the important letters are in the 
package, from the first formal note asking 
permission to call, which a womanly 
instinct bade the maiden put aside, to 
the last letter, written when twilight lay 
upon the long road they had travelled to- 
gether, but still beginning : “ My Dear and 
Honoured Wife. ” 

Bits of rosemary and geranium, lemon 
verbena, tuberose, and heliotrope, fragile 
and whitened, but still sweet, fall from the 
opened letters and rustle softly as they fall. 

Far away in the 4 ‘peace which passe th 
all understanding,” the writer of the 
letters sleeps, but the old love keeps a 
fragrance that outlives the heart in which 
it bloomed. 

At night, when the fires below are 

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1 68 

ZIbreaOs ot ©reg ant> ©clb 

Iftomance 
ant> tbe 
postman 

lighted, and childish voices make the old 
house ring with laughter, Memory steals 
into the attic to sing softly of the past, as 
a mother croons her child to sleep. 

Rocking in a quaint old attic chair, with 
the dear familiar things of home gathered 
all about her, Memory’s voice is sweet, 
like a harp tuned in the minor mode when 
the south wind sweeps the strings. 

Bunches of herbs swing from the rafters 
and fill the room with the wholesome scent 
of an old-fashioned garden, where rue and 
heartsease grew. With the fragrance 
comes the breath from that garden of 
Mnemosyne, where the simples for heart- 
ache nod beside the River of Forgetfulness. 

In a flash the world is forgotten, and 
into the attic come dear faces from that 
distant land of childhood, where a strange 
enchantment glorified the common-place, 
and made the dreams of night seem real. 
Footsteps that have long been silent are 
heard upon the attic floor, and voices, 
hushed for years, whisper from the shadows 
from the other end of the room. 


■Romance ant> tbe postman 

169 

A moonbeam creeps into the attic and 
transfigures the haunted chamber with a 
sheen of silver mist. From the spinning- 
wheel come a soft hum and a delicate 
whir; then a long-lost voice breathes the 
first notes of an old, old song. The 
melody changes to a minuet, and the lady 
in the portrait moves, smiling, from the 
tarnished gilt frame that surrounds her — 
then a childish voice says: “ Mother, are 
you asleep ?” 

Down the street the postman passes, 
bearing his burden of joy and pain: let- 
ters from far-off islands, where the Stars 
and Stripes gleam against a forest of 
palms; from the snow-bound fastnesses of 
the North, where men are searching for 
gold; from rose-scented valleys and violet 
fields, where the sun forever shines, and 
from lands across the sea, where men speak 
an alien tongue — single messages from one 
to another; letters that plead for pardon 
cross the paths of those that are meant to 
stab; letters written in jest too often find 
grim earnest at the end of their journey, 

Iftomance 
ant> tbe 
postman 


170 

Ubteabs of ©res anb ©olb 

IRomance 
an& tbc 
postman 

and letters written in all tenderness meet 
misunderstandings and pain, when the 
postman brings them home; letters that 
deal with affairs of state and shape the 
destiny of a nation; tidings of happiness 
and sorrow, birth and death, love and trust, 
and the thousand pangs of trust betrayed ; 
an hundred joys and as many griefs are 
all in the postman’s hands. 

No wonder, then, that there is a stir in 
the house, that eyes brighten, hearts beat 
quickly, and eager steps hasten to the door 
of destiny, when the postman rings the 
bell! 



171 

H Summer IReverie 

T SIT on the shore of the deep blue sea 

1 As the tide comes rolling in, 

And wonder, as roaming in sunlit dreams, 
The cause of the breakers’ din. 

For each of the foam-crowned billows 

Has a wonderful story to tell, 

And the surge’s mystical music 

Seems wrought by a fairy spell. 

I wander through memory’s portals, 
Through mansions dim and vast, 

And gaze at the beautiful pictures 

That hang in the halls of the past. 

And dream-faces gather around me, 

With voices soft and low, 

To draw me back to the pleasures 

Of the lands of long ago. 

There are visions of beauty and splendour, 
And a fame that I never can win — 

Far out on the deep they are sailing — 

My ships that will never come in. 

B 

Summer 

ttcvcrle 



172 


m 

Vignette 

H Vignette 

|T was a muddy down -town comer and 
* several people stood in the cold, 
waiting for a street-car. A stand of daily 
papers was on the sidewalk, guarded by two 
little newsboys. One was much younger 
than the other, and he rolled two marbles 
back and forth in the mud by the curb. 
Suddenly his attention was attracted by 
something bright above him, and he looked 
up into a bunch of red carnations a young 
lady held in her hands. He watched them 
eagerly, seemingly unable to take his eyes 
from the feast of colour. She saw the 
hungry look in the little face, and put one 
into his hand. He was silent, until his 
brother said: 1 ‘Say thanky to the lady.” 
He whispered his thanks, and then she bent 
down and pinned the blossom upon his 
ragged jacket, while the big policeman on 
the comer smiled approvingly. 


a IDtgnette 

173 

“My, but you ’re gay now, and you can 
sell all your papers,” the bigger boy said 
tenderly. 

“ Yep, I can sell ’em now, sure!” 

Out of the crowd on the opposite comer 
came a tiny, dark-skinned Italian girl, with 
an accordion slung over her shoulder by a 
dirty ribbon; she made straight for the 
carnations and fearlessly cried, “Lady, 
please give me a flower ! ” She got one, and 
quickly vanished in the crowd. 

The young woman walked up the street 
to a flower-stand to replenish her bunch 
of carnations, and when she returned, 
another dark-skinned mite rushed up to her 
without a word, only holding up grimy 
hands with a gesture of pathetic appeal. 
Another brilliant blossom went to her, and 
the young woman turned to follow her; 
on through the crowd the child fled, until 
she reached the comer where her mother 
stood, seamed and wrinkled and old, with 
the dark pathetic eyes of sunny Italy. She 
held the flower out to her, and the weary 
mother turned and snatched it eagerly, 

H 

IDionette 



174 

TTbreaOs of (Breg anO (Bolt) 

H 

Vignette 

then pressed it to her lips, and kissed it as 
passionately as if it had been the child who 
brought it to her. 

Just then the car came, and the big grey 
policeman helped the owner of the carna- 
tions across the street, and said as he put 
her on the car, “Lady, you ’ve sure done 
them children a good turn to-day.” 



175 

Habitation 

T SAIL through the realms of the long ago, 

I Wafted by fancy and visions frail, 

On the river Time with its gentle flow, 

In a silver boat with a golden sail. 

My dreams, in the silence are hurrying by 

On the brooklet of Thought where I let them 
flow, 

And the “lilies nod to the sound of the stream” 
As I sail through the realms of the long ago. 

On the shores of life’s deep-flowing stream 

Are my countless sorrows and heartaches, 
too, 

And the hills of hope are but dimly seen, 

Far in the distance, near heaven’s blue. 

I find that my childish thoughts and dreams 
Lie strewn on the sands by the cruel blast 
That scattered my hopes on the restless 
streams 

That flow through the mystic realms of the 
past. 

Habitation 



176 


potntew 
for tbe 
lorba of 
Creation 

pointers for tbe Xorbs of Creation 

QOME wit has said that the worst vice 
^ in the world is advice, and it is also 
quite true that one ignorant, though well- 
meaning person can sometimes accomplish 
more damage in a short time, than a dozen 
people who start out for the purpose of 
doing mischief. 

The newspapers and periodicals of to- 
day are crowded with advice to women, and 
while much of it is found in magazines for 
women, written and edited by men, it is 
also true that a goodly quantity of it comes 
from feminine writers; it is all along the 
same lines, however, the burden of effort 
being to teach the weaker sex how to 
become more attractive and more lovable 
to the lords of creation. It is, of course, all 
intended for our good, for if we can only 
please the men, and obey their slightest 


pointers for tbe XorOs of Creation 

177 

wish even before they take the trouble to 
mention the matter, we can then be per- 
fectly happy. 

A man can sit down any day and give 
us directions enough to keep us busy for a 
lifetime, and we seldom or never return the 
compliment. This is manifestly unfair, 
and so this little preachment is meant for 
the neglected and deserving men, and for 
them only, so that all women who have 
read thus far are invited to leave the matter 
right here and turn their attention to the 
column of “Advice to Women ” which 
they can find in almost any periodical. 

In the first place, gentlemen, we must 
admit that you do keep us guessing, 
though we do not sit up nights nor lose 
much sleep over your queer notions. 

We can’t ask you many questions, either, 
dear brethren, for, as you know, you rather 
like to fib to us, and sometimes we are able 
to find it out, and then we never believe 

you any more. 

We may venture, however, to ask small 
favours of you, and one of these is that you 

pointers 
for tbe 
Xor&s of 
Creation 



i 7 8 

Ubreabs of Greg anb Golb 

pointer* 
for tbe 
Xorbs of 
Creatfon 

do not wear red ties. You look so nice in 
quiet colours that we dislike exceedingly to 
have you make crazy quilts of yourselves, 
and that is just what you do when you 
begin experimenting with colours which 
we naturally associate with the “cullud 
pussons.” 

And a cane may be very ornamental, but 
it ’s of no earthly use, and we would rather 
you would not carry it when you go out 
with us. 

Never tell us you have n’t had time to 
come and see us, or write to us, because we 
know perfectly well that if you wanted 
to badly enough, you would take the time, 
so the excuse makes us even madder than 
does the neglect. Still, when you don’t 
want to come, we would not have you do 
it for anything. 

There is an old saying that “absence 
makes the heart grow fonder” — so it does 
— of the other fellow. We don’t propose 
to shed any tears over you ; we simply go to 
the theatre with the other man and have 
an extremely good time. When you are 


pointers for tbe Xorbs of Creation 1 

179 

very, very bright, you can manage some 
way not to allow us to forget you for a 
minute, nor give us much time to think 
of anything else. 

When we are angry, for heaven’s sake 
don’t ask us why, because that shows your 
lack of penetration. Just simply call 
yourself a brute, and say you are utterly 
unworthy of even our faint regard, and you 
will soon realise that this covers a lot of 
ground, and everything will be all right in 
a few minutes. 

And whatever you do, don’t show any 
temper yourself. A woman requires of a 
man that he shall be as immovable as the 
rock of Gibraltar, no matter what she does 
to him. And you play your strongest card 
when you don’t mind our tantrums — even 
though it ’s a state secret we are telling 
you. 

Don’t get huffy when you meet us with 
another man ; in nine cases out of ten, that ’s 
just what we do it for. And don’t make the 
mistake of retaliating by asking another 
girl somewhere. You ’ll have a perfectly 

pointers 
tor tbe 
lords of 
Creation 



i8o 

UbreaOs of ©teg anb ©olD 

pointers 
for tbe 
Xorbs of 
Creation 

miserable time if you do, both then and 
afterward. 

When you do come to see us, it is not at 
all nice to spend the entire evening talking 
about some other girl. How would you like 
to have the graces of some other man 
continually dinned into your ears? Some- 
times we take that way in order to get a 
rest from your overweening raptures over 
the absent girl. 

We have a well-defined suspicion that 
you talk us over with your chums and 
compare notes. But, bless you, it can’t 
possibly hold a candle to the thorough and 
impartial discussions that some of you get 
when girls are together, either in small 
bevies, or with only one chosen friend. 
And we don’t very much care what you 
say about us, for a man never judges a 
woman by the opinion of any one else, but 
another woman’s opinion counts for a great 
deal with us, so you would better be careful. 

If you are going to say things that you 
don’t mean, try to stamp them with the 
air of sincerity — if you can once get a 


pointers for tbe Xor&s of Creation 

181 

woman to fully believe in your sincerity, 
you have gone a long way toward her heart. 

Have n't you found out that women are 
not particularly interested in anecdotes? 
Please don’t tell us more than fifteen in the 
same evening. 

And don’t begin to make love to us before 
you have had time to make a favourable 
impression along several lines — a man, as 
well as a woman, loses ground and forfeits 
respect by making himself too cheap. 

If a girl runs and screams when she has 
been caught standing under the mistletoe, 
it means that she will not object; if she 
stiffens up and glares at you, it means that 
she does. The same idea is sometimes 
delicately conveyed by the point of a pin. 
But a woman will be able to forgive almost 
anything which you can make her believe 
was prompted by her own attractiveness, 
at least unless she knows men fairly well. 

You know, of course, that we will not 
show your letters, nor tell when you ask 
us to marry you and are refused. This 
much a woman owes to any man who has 

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for t be 
lorbs of 
Creation 



182 

TlbreaOs of ©re? ant> ©olb 

pointer® 
for tbe 
Xor&s of 
Creation 

honoured her with an offer of marriage — to 
keep his perfect trust sacredly in her own 
heart. Even her future husband has no 

business to know of this — it is her lover’s 
secret, and she has no right to betray it. 

Keeping the love-letters and the offers 
of marriage from any honourable man safe 
from a prying world are points of honour 
which all good women possess, although we 
may sometimes quote certain things from 
your letters, as you do from ours. 

There ’s nothing you can tell a woman 
which will please her quite so much as that 
knowing her has made you better, es- 
pecially if you can prove it by showing a 
decided upward tendency in your morals. 
That ’s your good right bower, but don’t 
play it too often — keep it for special 
occasions. 

There ’s one mistake you make, dear 
brethren, and that is telling a woman you 
love her as soon as you find it out yourself, 
and the most of you will do that very thing. 
There is one case on record where a man 
waited fifteen minutes, but he nearly died 


pointers tor tbe Xorbs of Creation 

183 

of the strain. The trouble is that you 
seldom stop to consider whether we are 
ready to hear you or not, nor whether the 
coast is clear, nor what the chances are 
in your favour. You simply relieve your 
mind, and trust in your own wonderful 
charms to accomplish the rest. 

And we wish that when the proper time 
comes for you to speak your mind you ’d 
try to do it artistically. Of course you 
can’t write it, unless you are far away from 
her, for if you can manage an opportunity 
to speak, a resort to the pen is cowardly. 
And don’t mind our evading the subject — 
we always do that on principle, but please 
don’t be scared, or at least don’t show it, 
whatever you may feel. If there is one 
thing a woman dislikes more than another 
it is a man who shows cowardice at the 
crucial point in life. 

Every man, except yourself, dear reader, 
is conceited. And one particular sort of it 
makes us very, very weary. You are so 
blinded by your own perfections, so sure 
that we are desperately in love with you, 

Jpo int 
for tbe 
Xor&s of 
Creation 



1 84 

Hbceabs of (0reg anb Oolb 

poinetrs 
for t be 
lorOs of 
Creation 

that you sometimes give us little unspoken 
suggestions to that effect, and then our 
disgust is beyond words. 

Another cowardly thing you sometimes 
do, and that is to say that we have spoiled 
your life — that we could have made you 
anything we pleased — and that you are 
going straight to perdition. If one woman 
is all that keeps you from going to ruin, 
you have secured a through ticket anyway, 
and it ’s too late to save you. You don’t 
want a woman who might marry you only 
out of pity, and you are not going to die of 
a broken heart. Men die of broken vanity, 
sometimes, but their hearts are pretty 
tough, being made of healthy muscle. 

You get married very much as you go 
down town in the morning. You run, like 
all possessed, until you catch your car, and 
then you sit down and read your news- 
paper. When you think your wife looks 
unusually well, it would not hurt you in the 
least to tell her so, and the way you leave 
her in the morning is going to settle her 
happiness for the day, though she may be 


pointers tor tbe Xorbs of Creation 

185 

too proud to let you know that it makes 
any difference. Women are quick to 
detect a sham, and they don’t want you to 
say anything that you don’t feel, but you 
are pretty sure to feel tenderly toward her 
sometimes, careless though you may be, 
and then is the time to tell her so. You 
don’t want to wait until she is dead, and 
then buy a lily to put on her coffin. You ’d 
better bring her the lily some time when 
you ’ve been cross and grumpy. 

But don’t imagine that a present of any 
kind ever atones for a hurt that has been 
given in words. There ’s nothing you can 
say which is more manly or which will do 
you both so much good as the simple 
“forgive me” when you have been wrong. 

Rest assured, gentlemen, that you who 
spend the most of your evenings in other 
company, and too often find fault with your 
meals when you come home, are the cause 
of many sorrowful talks among the women 
who are wise enough to know, even though 
your loyal wife may put up a brave front 
in your defense. 

pointers 
for tbe 
Xotbs of 
Creation 



1 86 

UbreaOs of ©res anb ©olt> 

pointers 
for tbe 
Xor&s of 
Creation 

How often do you suppose the brave 
woman who loves you has been actually 
driven in her agony to some married friend 
whom she can trust and upon her sym- 
pathetic bosom has cried until she could 
weep no more, simply because of your 
thoughtless neglect? How often do you 
think she has planned little things to make 
your home-coming pleasant, which you 
have never noticed? And how often do 
you suppose she has desperately fought 
down the heartache and tried to believe 
that your absorption in business is the 
reason for your forgetfulness of her? 

Do you ever think of these things? Do 
you ever think of the days before you were 
sure of her, when you treasured every line 
of her letters, and would have bartered 
your very hopes of heaven for the earthly 
life with her? 

But perhaps you can hardly be expected 
to remember the wild sprint that you made 
from the breakfast table to the street-car. 




187 

transition 

I AM thy Pleasure. See, my face is fair — 

1 With silken strands of joy I twine thee 
round ; 

Life has enough of stress — forget with me ! 

Wilt thou not stay? Then go, thou art not 
bound. 

I am thy Pastime. Let me be to thee 

A daily refuge from the haunting fears 

That bind thee, choke thee, fill thy soul with 
woe. 

Seek thou my hand, let me assuage thy tears. 

I am thy Habit. Nay, start not, thy will 

Is yet supreme, for art thou not a man? 
Then draw me close to thee, for life is brief — 

A little space to pass as best one can. 

I am thy Passion. Thou shalt cling to me 
Through all the years to come. The silken 
cord 

Of Pleasure has become a stronger bond, 

Not to be cleft, nor loosened at a word. 

XPranfttton 


i88 

ftbreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

^Transition 

I am thy Master. Thou shalt crush for me 
The grapes of truth for wine of sacrifice; 

My clanking chains were forged for such as 
thee, 

I am thy Master — yea, I am thy vice! 



189 

Gbe Superiority of flDan 

A \ WITHOUT pausing to inquire why 
v * savages and barbarians are cap- 
able of producing college professors, who 
sneer at the source from which they sprung, 
we may accept for the moment the mas- 
culine hypothesis of intellectual superiority. 
Some women have been heard to say that 
they wish they had been born men, but 
there is no man bold enough to say that 
he would like to be a woman. 

If woman can produce a reasoning being, 
it follows that she herself must be capable 
of reasoning, since a stream can rise no 
higher than its fountain. And yet the 
bitter truth stares us in the face. We 
have no Shakespeare, Michelangelo, or 
Beethoven; our Darwins, our Schumanns 
are mute and inglorious ; our Miltons, 
Raphaels, and Herbert Spencers have not 
arrived. 

ttbe 

Superiority 
of flDan 


190 

Ubrea&s of ©res anO ©olO 

TTfoe 

Superiority 
of flDan 

Call the roll of the great and how many 
women’s names will be found there? 
Scarcely enough to enable you to call the 
company mixed. 

No woman in her senses wishes to be 
merely the female of man. She aspires to 
be distinctly different — to exercise her 
varied powers in wholly different ways. 
Ex- President Roosevelt said: '‘Equality 
does not imply identity of function. ” We 
do not care to put in telephones or to collect 
fares on a street-car. 

Primitive man set forth from his cave 
to kill an animal or two, then repaired to a 
secluded nook in the jungle, with other 
primitive men, to discuss the beginnings of 
politics. Primitive woman in the cave 
not only dressed his game, but she cooked 
the animal for food, made clothing of its 
skin, necklaces and bracelets of its teeth, 
passementerie of its claws, and needles of 
its sharper bones. What wonder that she 
had no time for an afternoon tea? 

The man of the twentieth century has 
progressed immeasurably beyond this, but 


ftbe Superiority of flban 

191 

his wife, industrially speaking, has not 
gone half so far. Is she not still in some 
cases a cave-dweller, while he roams the 
highways of the world? 

If a woman mends men's socks, should 
he not dam her lisle-thread hosiery, and run 
a line of machine stitching around the 
middle of the hem to prevent a disastrous 
run from a broken stitch? If she presses 
his ties, why should he not learn to iron 
her bits of fine lace? 

Some one will say : “ But he supports her. 
It is her duty. ” 

“Yes, dear friend, but similarly does he 
‘support’ the servant who does the same 
duties. He also gives her seven dollars 
every Monday morning, or she leaves.” 
Are we to suppose that a wife is a woman 
who does general housework for board and 
clothes, with a few kind words thrown in? 

A German lady, whom we well knew, 
worked all the morning attending to the 
comforts of her liege lord. In the dining 
room he was stretched out in an easy chair, 
while the queen of his heart brushed and 

Ube 

Superiority 
of /Ban 


192 

tEbreabs of ©rep anb ©olb 

Zbc 

Superiority 
of flDan 

repaired his clothes — yes, and blacked his 
boots! Doubtless for a single kiss, re- 
dolent of beer and sausages, she would have 
pressed his trousers. Kind words and the 
fragrant osculation had already saved him 
three dollars at his tailor’s. 

By such gold-brick methods, dear friends, 
do men get good service cheap. Would 
that we could do the same! Here, and 
gladly, we admit masculine superiority. 

Our short-sightedness, our weakness for 
kind words, our graceful acceptance of the 
entire responsibility for the home, have 
chained us to the earth, while our lords 
soar. After having worked steadily for 
some six thousand years to populate the 
earth passably, some of us may now be 
excused from that duty. 

Motherhood is a career for which especial 
talents are required. Very few women 
know how to bring up children properly. 

If you don’t believe it, look at the difference 
between our angelic offspring, and the 
little imps next door ! It is as unreasonable 
to suppose that all women can be good 


ftbe Superiority of /Ran 

193 

mothers as it is to suppose that all women 
can sing in grand opera. 

And yet, let us hug to our weary hearts, 
in our most discouraged moments, the great 
soul-satisfying truth that men, no matter 
what they say or write, think that we are 
smarter than they are. Otherwise, they 
would not expect of us so much more than 
they can possibly do themselves. 

In every field of woman's work outside 
the house, the same illustration ' applies. 
They also think that we possess greater 
physical strength. They chivalrously 

shield us from the exhausting effort of 
voting, but allow us to stand in the street- 
cars, wash dishes, push a baby carriage, 
and scrub the kitchen floor. Should we 
not be proud because they consider us so 
much stronger and wiser than they? In- 
terruptions are fatal to their work, as the 
wife of even a business man will testify. 

What would have become of Spencer's 
Data of Ethics if, while he was writing it, he 
had two dressmakers in the house? Should 
we have had Hamlet , if at the comple- 

Ube 

Superiority 
of /Dan 



194 

UbreaOs of Greg an£> GolO 

Ub c 

Superiority 
of flDan 

tion of the first act Mr. Shakespeare had 
given birth to twins, when he had made 
clothes for only one? 

The great charm of marriage, as of life 
itself, is its unexpectedness. The only 
way to test a man is to marry him. If you 
live, it ’s a mushroom; if you die, it ’s a 
toadstool ! 

Or, as another saying goes: “ Happiness 
after marriage is like the soap in the bath- 
tub; you knew it was there when you got 
in.” 

Man’s clothes are ugly, but the styles 
change gradually. A judge on the bench 
may try a case lasting two weeks, and his 
hat will not be hopelessly behind the times 
when it is finished. A man can stoop to 
pick up a fallen magazine without pausing 
to remember that his front steels are not so 
flexible this year as they were last. 

He is not distressed by the fear that some 
other man may have a suit just like his, 
or that the neighbours will think it is his 
last year’s suit dyed. 

We women fritter ourselves away upon a 


Zbc Superiority of flDatt 

i95 

thousand unnecessary things. We waste 
our creative energies and our inspired 
moments upon pursuits so ephemeral that 
they are forgotten to-morrow. Our day’s 
work counts for nothing when tested by the 
standards of eternity. We are unjust, 
not only to ourselves, but to the men who 
strive for us, for civilisation must progress 
very slowly when half of us are dragged 
by pots and pans. 

A house is a material fact, but a home is 
a fine spiritual essence which may pervade 
even the humblest abode. If love means 
harmony, why not try a little of it in the 
kitchen? Better a perfect salad than a 
poor poem; better a fine picture than an 
immaculate house. 

TTtx 

Superiority 
Of flDan 


196 


TIbe H?eac 
of m$ 
t>eart 

£be IPear of Ibeart 

A SIGH for the spring, full flowered, 
iv promised spring, 

Laid on the tender earth, and those dear days 
When apple blossoms gleamed against the 
blue! 

Ah, how the world of joyous robins sang: 

“ I love but you, Sweetheart, I love but you!” 

A sigh for. summer fled. In warm, sweet air 
Her thousand singers sped on shining wing ; 
And all the inward life of budding grain 
Throbbed with a thousand pulses, while I 
cling 

To you, my Sweet, with passion near to pain. 

A sigh for autumn past. The garnered fields 
Lie desolate to-day. My heart is chill 

As with a sense of dread, and on the shore 

The waves beat grey and cold, and seem to say : 
“No more, oh, waiting soul, oh nevermore!” 

A sigh for winter come. No singing bird, 

Nor harvest field, is near the path I tread; 

An empty husk is all I have to keep. 

The largess of my giving left me bare, 

And I ask God but for His Lethe — sleep. 



197 

Gbe average flDan 

HTHE real man is not at all on the out- 
* skirts of civilisation. He is very 
much in evidence and everybody knows 
him. He has faults and virtues, and some- 
times they get so mixed up that “you can- 
not tell one from t’ other. ” 

He is erratic and often queer. He 
believes, with Emerson, that “with con- 
sistency a great soul has nothing to do.” 
And he is, of course, “a great soul.” Logi- 
cal, is n’t it? 

The average man thinks that he is a 
bom genius at love-making. Henders, in 
The Professor's Love Story , states it thus : 

“Effie, ye ken there are some men ha’ a 
power o’er women. . . . They ’re what 
ye might call ‘dead shots.’ Ye canna 
deny, Effie, that I ’m one o’ those men!” 

Even though a man may be obliged to 

Ube 

Rverage 

flDan 


198 

flbreaba of (Beep anb (Bolb 

Zbe 

Sverafl* 

man 

admit, in strict confidence between himself 
and his mirror, that he is not at all hand- 
some, nevertheless he is certain that he has 
some occult influence over that strange, 
mystifying, and altogether unreasonable 
organ — a woman’s heart. 

The real man is conceited. Of course 
you are not, dear masculine reader, for 
you are one of the bright particular 
exceptions, but all of your men friends are 
conceited — are n’t they? 

And then he makes fun of his women 
folks because they spend so much time in 
front of the mirror in arranging hats and 
veils. But when a high wind comes up 
and disarranges coiffures and chapeaux 
alike, he takes “my ladye fair’’ into some 
obscure comer, and saying, “Pardon me, 
but your hat isn’t quite straight,’’ he 
will deftly restore that piece of millinery 
to its pristine position. That ’s nice of 
him, is n’t it? He does very nice things 
quite often, this real man. 

He says women are fickle. So they are, 
but men are fickle too, and will forget all 


Ube average flDait 

199 

about the absent sweetheart while con- 
templating the pretty girls in the street. 
For while “absence makes the heart grow 
fonder” in the case of a woman, it is 
presence that plays the mischief with a 
man, and Miss Beauty present has a very 
unfair advantage over Miss Sweetheart 
absent. 

The average man thinks he is a connois- 
seur of feminine attractiveness. He thinks 
he has tact, too, but there never was a man 
who was blessed with much of this valuable 
commodity. Still, as that is a favourite 
delusion with so large a majority of the 
human race, the conceit of the ordinary 
masculine individual ought not to be 
censured too strongly. 

The real man is quite an expert at flat- 
tery. Every girl he meets, if she is at all 
attractive, is considered the most charming 
lady that he ever knew. He is sure she 
is n’t prudish enough to refuse him a kiss, 
and if she is, she wins not only his admira- 
tion, but that which is vastly better — his 
respect. 

TTbe 

Bvcragc 

fl&an 


200 

Ubreabs of ©reg ant) ©olb 

TEbc 

Average 

/fi>an 

If she hates to be considered a prude 
and gives him the kiss, he is very sweet 
and appreciative at the time, but later on 
he confides to his chum that she is a silly 
sort of a girl, without a great deal of self- 
respect ! 

There are two things that the average 
man likes to be told. One is that his taste 
in dress is exceptional; the other that he 
is a deep student of human nature and 
knows the world thoroughly. This re- 
mark will make him your lifelong friend. 

Again, the real man will put on more 
agony when he is in love than is needed 
for a first-class tragedy. But there ’s no 
denying that most women like that sort of 
thing, you, dear dainty feminine reader, 
being almost the only exception to this rule. 

But, resuming the special line of thought, 
man firmly believes that woman cannot 
sharpen a pencil, select a necktie, throw a 
stone, drive a nail, or kill a mouse, and it is 
very certain that she cannot cook a beef- 
steak in the finished style of which his 
lordship is capable. 


Ube average ZlDan 

201 

Yes, man has his faults as well as woman. 
There is a vast room for improvement on 
both sides, but as long as this old earth 
of ours turns through shadow and sunlight, 
through sorrow and happiness, men and 
women will forgive and try to forget, and 
will cling to, and love each other. 

Ube 

Bverage 
/ID an 


202 


XEbe Boofc 
of love 

XTbe Book of love 

T DREAMT I saw an angel in the night, 

1 And she held forth Love’s book, limned 
o’er with gold, 

That I might read of days of chivalry 

And how men’s hearts were wont to thrill of 
old. 

Half wondering, I turned the musty leaves, 

For Love’s book counts out centuries as years, 
And here and there a page shone out un- 
dimmed, 

And here and there a page was blurred with 
tears. 

I read of Grief, Doubt, Silence unexplained — 
Of many-featured Wrong, Distrust, and 
Blame, 

Renunciation — bitterest of all — 

And yet I wandered not beyond Love’s name. 

At last I cried to her who held the book, 

So fair and calm she stood, I see her yet ; 

“Why write these things within this book of 
Love? 

Why may we not pass onward and forget?” 


Ebe JBooK of love 

203 

Her voice was tender when she answered me: 
“Half child, half woman, earthy as thou art, 
How should’st thou dream that Love is never 
Love 

Unless these things beat vainly on the heart?” 

Ube JBooft 
ef love 


204 


TEbe 

Ibeal flDan 

Gbe llbeal flDan 

IT E is n’t nearly so scarce as one might 

A A think, but happy is the woman who 
finds him, for he is often a bit out of the 
beaten paths, sometimes in the very 
suburbs of our modern civilisation. He 
is, however, coming to the front rather 
slowly, to be sure, but nevertheless he is 
coming. 

He would n’t do for the hero of a dime 
novel — he is n’t melancholy in his mien, 
nor Byronic in his morals. It is a frank, 
honest, manly face that looks into the 
other end of our observation telescope when 
we sweep the horizon to find something 
higher and better than the rank and file of 
humanity. 

He is a gentleman, invariably courteous 
and refined. He is careful in his attire, 
but not foppish. He is chivalrous in his 


■Jibe flbeal /Ban 

205 

attitude toward woman, and as politely 
kind to the wrinkled old woman who 

scrubs his office floor as to the aristocratic 
belle who bows to him from her carriage. 

He is scrupulously honest in all his 
dealings with his fellow men, and meanness 
of any sort is utterly beneath him. He has 
a happy way of seeing the humorous side 
of life, and he is an exceedingly pleasant 
companion. 

When the love light shines in his eyes, 
kindled at the only fire where it may be 
lighted, he has nothing in his past of which 
he need be ashamed. He stands beside 
her and pleads earnestly and manfully 
for the treasure he seeks. Slowly he turns 
the pages of his life before her, for there is 
not one which can call a blush to his cheek, 
or to hers. 

Truth, purity, honesty, chivalry, the 
highest manliness — all these are written 
therein, and she gladly accepts the clean 
heart which is offered for her keeping. 

Her life is now another open book. To 
him her nature seems like a harp of a 

Ube 

ITbeal /TOan 


206 

Ubreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Ube 

Ifbeal fiBan 

thousand strings, and every note, though it 
may not be strong and high, is truth itself, 
and most refined in tone. 

So they join hands, these two: the 
sweetheart becomes the wife; the lover 
is the husband. 

He is still chivalrous to every woman, 
but to his wife he pays the gentler defer- 
ence which was the sweetheart’s due. He 
loves her, and is not ashamed to show it. 
He brings her flowers and books, just as 
he used to do when he was teaching her to 
love him. He is broad-minded, and far- 
seeing — he believes in “a white life for 
two.” He knows his wife has the same 
right to demand purity in thought, word, 
and deed from him, as he has to ask 
absolute stainlessness from her. That is 
why he has kept clean the pages of his life 
— why he keeps the record unsullied as the 
years go by. 

He is tender in his feelings; if he goes 
home and finds his wife in tears, he does n’t 
tell her angrily to “brace up, ” or say, “this 
is a pretty welcome for a man!” He 


Ube llbeal flDan 

207 

does n’t slam the door and whistle as if 
nothing was the matter. But he takes her 
in his comforting arms and speaks soothing 
words. If his comrades speak lightly of 
his devotion, he simply thinks out other 
blessings for the little woman who presides 
at his fireside. 

His wife is inexpressibly dear to him, and 
every day he shows this, and takes pains, 
also, to tell her so. He admires her pretty 
gowns, and is glad to speak appreciatively 
of the becoming things she wears. He 
knows instinctively that it is the thought- 
fulness and the little tenderness which 
make a woman’s happiness, and he tries 
to make her realise that his love for her 
grew brighter, instead of fading, when the 
sweetheart blossomed into the wife. For 
every woman, old, wrinkled, and grey, or 
young and charming, likes to be loved. 

The ideal man will do his utmost to 

make his wife realise that his devotion 
intensifies as the years go by. 

What greater thing is there for two hu- 
man souls than to feel that they are joined 

Zbc 

fbeal ®an 



208 

XTbreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Zbe 

flbeal flJan 

for life — to strengthen each other in all 
labour, to rest upon each other in all sor- 
row, to minister to each other in all pain, to 
be one with each other in silent unspeak- 
able memories at the moment of the last 
parting? 

God bless the ideal man and hasten his 
coming in greater numbers. 



209 

(Boob-Wight, Sweetheart 

/^OOD-NIGHT, Sweetheart; the wing&d 
VJ hours have flown; 

I have forgotten all the world but thee. 

Across the moon-lit deep, where stars have 
shone, 

The surge sounds softly from the sleeping sea. 

Thy heart at last hath opened to Love’s key ; 
Remembered Aprils, glorious blooms have 
sown, 

And now there comes the questing honey 
bee. 

Good-night, Sweetheart; the wing&d hours 
have flown. 

My singing soul makes music in thine own, 
Thy hand upon my harp makes melody ; 

So close the theme and harmony have grown 

I have forsaken all the world for thee. 

Before thy whiteness do I bend the knee ; 

Thou art a queen upon a stainless throne, 

Like Dian making royal jubilee, 

Across the vaulted dark where stars are blown. 

(Boobs 

Wight, 

Sweetbeavt 


210 

Ubreabs of Ores anb ©oR> 

0OO&a 

might, 

Sweetheart 

Within my heart thy face shines out alone, 

Ah, dearest! Say for once thou lovest me! 

A whisper, even, like the undertone 

The surge sings slowly from the rhythmic sea. 

Thy downcast eyes make answer to my plea ; 

A crimson mantle o’er thy cheek is thrown 
Assurance more than this, there need not be, 
For thus, within the silence, love is known. 
Good-night, Sweetheart. 



2 1 1 

Zhe 11&eal Moman 

'T'HE trend of modem thought in art and 
* literature is toward the real, but 
fortunately the cherishing of the ideal has 
not vanished. 

All of us, though we may profess to be 
realists, are at heart idealists, for every 
woman in the innermost sanctuary of her 
thoughts cherishes an ideal man. And 
every man, practical and commonplace 
though he be, has before him in his quiet 
moments a living picture of grace and 
beauty, which, consciously or not, is his 
ideal woman. 

Every man instinctively admires a 
beautiful woman. But when he seeks a 
wife, he demands other qualities besides 
that wonderful one which is, as the proverb 
tells us, “only skin deep. ” 

If men were not such strangely inconsis- 

TTbe 

tfceal 

TKRoman 


212 

flbreabs of ©res? attb ©olb 

IX be 
Ifbeal 
TBfloman 

tent beings, the world would lose half its 
charm. Each sex rails at the other for its 
inconsistency, when the real truth is that 
nowhere exists much of that beautiful 
quality which is aptly termed a “jewel. ” 

But humanity must learn with Emerson 
to seek other things than consistency, and 
to look upon the lightning play of thought 
and feeling as an index of mental and moral 
growth. 

For those who possess the happy faculty 
of “making the best of things,’’ men are 
really the most amusing people in existence. 
To hear a man dilate upon the virtues and 
accomplishments of the ideal woman he 
would make his wife is a most interesting 
diversion, besides being a source of what 
may be called decorative instruction. 

She must, first of all, be beautiful. No 
man, even in his wildest moments, ever 
dreamed of marrying any but a beautiful 
woman, yet, in nine cases out of ten when 
he does go to the altar, he is leading there 
one who is lovely only in his own eyes. 

He has read Swinburne and Tennyson 


Gbe Ibeal Woman 

213 

and is very sure he won’t have anything 
but “ a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
and most divinely fair. ” Then, of course, 
there is the “ classic profile,” the “deep, 
unfathomable eyes,” the “lily-white skin,” 
and “hair like the raven’s wing,” not to 
mention the “swan-like neck” and “taper- 
ing, shapely fingers.” 

Mr. Ideal is really a man of refined taste, 
and the women who hear this impassioned 
outburst are supremely conscious of their 
own imperfections. 

But beauty is not the only demand of this 
fastidious gentleman ; the fortunate woman 
whom he deigns to honour must be a 
paragon of sweetness and docility. No 
“woman’s rights” or “suffrage rant” for 
him, and none of those high-stepping 
professional women need apply either — 
oh, no ! And then all of her interests must 
be his, for of all things on earth, he “does 
despise a woman with a hobby!” None 
of these “broad-minded women” were ever 
intended for Mr. Ideal. He is very certain 
of that, because away down in his secret 

ttbe 

Tbcal 

UHoman 


214 

Ubrea&s of ©res ant* ©olt* 

Ub c 

tbcal 

XGoman 

heart he was sure he had found the right 
woman once, but when he did, he learned 
also that she was somewhat particular 
about the man she wanted to marry, and 
the applicant then present did not fill the 
bill ! He is therefore very sure that * 1 a man 
does not want an intellectual instructor: 

he wants a wife.” 

Just like the most of them after all, 
is n’t he? 

The year goes round and Mr. Ideal 
goes away on a summer vacation. There 
are some pleasant people in the little town 
to which he goes, and there is a girl in the 
party with her mother and brother. Mr. 
Ideal loqks her over disapprovingly. She 
is n’t pretty — no, she is n’t even good- 
looking. Her hair is almost red, her eyes 
are a pale blue, and she wears glasses. Her 
nose is n’t even straight, and it turns up too 
much besides. Her skin is covered with 
tiny golden-brown blotches. “Freckles!” 
exclaims Mr. Ideal, sotto voce . Her 
mouth is n’t bad, the lips are red and full 
and her teeth are white and even. She 


Ube Ubeal Moman 

215 

wears a blue boating suit with an Eton 
jacket. “So common!” and Mr. Ideal 
goes away from his secluded point of 
observation. 

A merry laugh reaches his ear, and he 
turns around. The tall brother is chasing 
her through the bushes, and she waves a 
letter tantalisingly at him as she goes, and 
finally bounds over a low fence and runs 
across the field, with her big brother in 
close pursuit. “Hoydenish!” and Mr. 
Ideal hums softly to himself and goes off to 
find Smith. Smith is a good fellow and 
asks Mr. Ideal to go fishing. They go, but 
don't have a bite, and come home rather 
cross. Does Smith know the little red- 
headed girl who was on the piazza this 
morning? 

Yes, he has met her. She has been 
here about a week. “Rather nice, but not 
especially attractive, you know." No, she 
is n't, but he will introduce Mr. Ideal. 

Days pass, and Mr. Ideal and Miss 
Practical are much together. He finds her 
the j oiliest girl he ever knew. She is an 

Ube 

flbeal 

tUoman 


216 

flbreabs of ©res anb ©olt> 

Tlbe 

fl&eaC 

UHoman 

enthusiastic advocate of “woman” in 
every available sphere. 

She herself is going to be a trained nurse 
after she learns to “keep house.” “For 
you know that every woman should be a 
good housekeeper,” she says demurely. 

He doesn’t exactly like “that trained 
nurse business,” but he admits to himself 
that, if he were ill, he should like to have 
Miss Practical smooth his pillow and take 
care of him. 

And so the time goes on, and he is often 
the companion of the girl. At times, she 
fairly scintillates with merriment, but she 
is so dignified, and so womanly — so very 
careful to keep him at his proper distance — 
that, well, “she is a type!” 

In due course of time, he plans to return 
to the city, and to the theatres and parties 
he used to find so pleasant. All his friends 
are there. No, Miss Practical is not in the 
city ; she is right here. Like a flash a reve- 
lation comes over him, and he paces the 
veranda angrily. Well, there ’s only one 
thing to be done — he must tell her about it. 


Zbc K&eal TOomait 


217 


Perhaps — and he sees a flash of blue 
through the shrubbery, which he seeks 


Ube 

Woman 


with the air of a man who has an object 


in view. 


His circle of friends are very much sur- 
prised when he introduces Mrs. Ideal, for 
she is surely different from the ideal woman 
about whom they have heard so much. 
They naturally think he is inconsistent, 
but he is n’t, for some subtle alchemy has 
transfigured the homely little girl into the 
dearest, best, and altogether most beauti- 
ful woman Mr. Ideal has ever seen. 

She is domestic in her tastes now, and 
has abandoned the professional nurse idea. 
She knows a great deal about Greek and 
Latin, and still more about Shakespeare 
and Browning and other authors. 

But she neglects neither her books nor 
her housekeeping, and her husband spends 
his evenings at home, not because Mrs. 
Ideal would cry and make a fuss if he 
did n’t, but because his heart is in her 
keeping, and because his own fireside, with 


2 18 

TTbreabs of ©res ant> ©oR> 

Ube 

l&cal 

TOloman 

its sweet-faced guardian angel, is to him 
the most beautiful place on earth, and he 
has sense enough to appreciate what a 
noble wife is to him. 

The plain truth is, when “any whatso- 
ever ” Mr. Ideal loves a woman, he 
immediately finds her perfect, and trans- 
fers to her the attributes which only exist 
in his imagination. His heart and happi- 
ness are there — not with the creatures of 
his dreams, but the warm, living, loving 
human being beside him, and to him, 
henceforth, the ideal is the real. 

For “the ideal woman is as gentle as 
she is strong.” She wins her way among 
her friends and fellow human beings, even 
though they may be strangers, by doing 
many a kindness which the most of us are 
too apt to overlook or ignore. 

No heights of thought or feeling are 
beyond her eager reach, and no human 
creature has sunk too low for her sym- 
pathy and her helping hand. Even the 
forlorn and friendless dog in the alley 


XEbe llbeal Moman 

219 

looks instinctively into her face for 
help. 

She is in every man’s thoughts and 
always will be, as she always has been — 
the ideal who shall lead him step by step, 
and star by star, to the heights which he 
cannot reach alone. 

Ruskin says: “No man ever lived a right 
life who has not been chastened by a 
woman’s love, strengthened by her courage 
and guided by her discretion. ” 

The steady flow of the twentieth-century 
progress has not swept away woman’s 
influence, nor has it crushed out her 
womanliness. She lives in the hearts of 
men, a queen as royal as in the days of 
chivalry, and men shall do and dare for 
her dear sake as long as time shall last. 

The sweet, lovable, loyal woman of the 
past is not lost; she is only intensified in 
the brave wifehood and motherhood of our 
own times. The modem ideal, like that 
of olden times, is and ever will be, above 
all things — womanly. 

ttbe 

f&eal 

TJCloman 


220 


Sbe 
■fla not 
fair 

Sbe Us not jfair 

Q HE is not fair to other eyes — 

O No poet’s dream is she, 

Nor artist’s inspiration, yet 

I would not have her be. 

She wanders not through princely halls, 

A crown upon her hair; 

Her heart awaits a single king 

Because she is not fair. 

Dear lips, your half-shy tenderness 

Seems far too much to win! 

Yet, has your heart a tiny door 

Where I may peep within? 

That voiceless chamber, dim and sweet, 

I pray may be my own. 

Dear little Love, may I come in 

And make you mine alone? 

She is not fair to other eyes — 

I would not have it so ; 

She needs no further charm or grace 

Or aught wealth may bestow; 


Sbe Is not ffair , 

221 

For when the love light shines and makes 
Her dear face glorified — 

Ah Sweetheart ! queens may come and go 
And all the world beside. 

Sbe 

Is not 
fait 


222 


tEttt 

SiecU 

TOoman 

Zbe Iftn^e-Siecle TKBoman 

'T'HE world has fought step by step the 
* elevation of woman from inferiority 
to equality, but at last she is being recog- 
nised as a potent factor in our civilisation. 

The most marked change which has 
been made in woman’s position during the 
last half century or more has been effected 
by higher education, and since the uni- 
versities have thrown open their doors to 
her, she has been allowed, in many cases, 
to take the same courses that her brother 

does. 

Still, the way has not been entirely 
smooth for educated and literary women, 
for the public press has too often frowned 
upon their efforts to obtain anything like 
equal recognition for equal ability. The 
literary woman has, for years, been the 
target of criticism, and if we are to believe 


Ube Jf{n*be«=5fecle Moman 

223 

her critics, she has been entirely shunned 
by the gentlemen of her acquaintance; 
but the fact that so many of them are 
wives and mothers, and, moreover, good 
wives and mothers, proves conclusively 
that these statements are not trustworthy. 

It is true that some prefer the society 
of women who know just enough to appre- 
ciate their compliments — women who de- 
precate their “strong-minded” sisters, and 
are ready to agree implicitly with every 
statement that the lords of creation may 
make; but this readiness is due to sheer 
inability to produce a thought of their own. 

It is true that some men are afraid of 
educated women, but a man who is afraid 
of a woman because she knows something 
is not the kind of a man she wants to 
marry. He is not the kind of a man she 
would choose for either husband or friend ; 
she wants an intellectual companion, and 
the chances are that she will find him, or 
rather that he will find her. A woman 
need not be unwomanly in order to write 
books that will help the world. 

Ube 

JFtno^e* 

Slide 

UHoman 


224 

Xtbrea&s of ©reg anb ©oR> 

Ube 

Jfinsbes 

Siecle 

TRUoman 

She may be a good housekeeper, even 
if she does write for the magazines, and 
the husbands of literary women are not, 
as some folks would have us believe, 
neglected and forlorn-looking beings. On 
the contrary, they carry brave hearts and 
cheerful faces with them always, since 
their strength is reinforced by the quiet 
happiness of their own firesides. 

The fin-de-siecle woman is literary in one 
sense, if not in another, for if she may not 
wield her pen, she can keep in touch with 
the leading thinkers of the day, and she 
will prove as pleasant a companion during 
the long winter evenings as the woman 
whose husband chose her for beauty and 
taste in dress. 

The literary woman is not slipshod in 
her apparel, and she may, if she chooses, 
be a society and club woman as well. 
Surely there is nothing in literary culture 
which shall prevent neatness and propriety 
in dress as well as in conduct. 

The devoted admirer of Browning is not 
liable to quote him in a promiscuous com- 


Ube ffin*be-Slecle TOUoman 

225 

pany and though a lady may be familiar 
with Shakespeare, it does not follow that 
she will discuss Hamlet in social gatherings. 

If she reads Greek as readily as she does 
her mother tongue, you may rest assured 
she will not mention Homer in ordinary 
conversation, for a cultivated woman 
readily recognises the fitness of things, and 
accords a due deference to the tastes of 
others. She has her club and her friends, 
as do the gentlemen of her acquaintance, 
but her children are not neglected from the 
fact that she sometimes thinks of other 
things. She is a helpmeet to her husband, 
and not a plaything, or a slave. If duty 
calls her to the kitchen, she goes cheer- 
fully, and, moreover, the cook will not 
dread to see her coming; or if that import- 
ant person be absent, the table will be 
supplied with just as good bread, and 
just as delicate pastry, as if the lady of 
the house did not understand the chemicals 
of their composition. 

If trouble comes, she bears it bravely, for 
the cultured woman has a philosophy which 

Zbe 

iffn=be* 

Sfecle 

Woman 



226 

Ubreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Zbc 
jf Irube* 
Siecle 
UCloman 

is equal to any emergency, and she does 
the best she can on all occasions. 

If her husband leaves her penniless, she 
will, if possible, clothe her children with her 
pen, but if her literary wares are a drug 
on the market, she will turn bravely to 
other fields, and find her daily bread made 
sweet by thankfulness. She does not 
hesitate to hold out her hands to help a 
fellow-creature, either man or woman, for 
she is in all things womanly — a wife to her 
husband and a mother to her children in 

the truest sense of the words. 

Her knowledge of the classics does not 
interfere with the making of dainty drap- 
eries for her home, and though she may be 
appointed to read a paper before her club 
on some scholarly theme, she will listen 
just as patiently to tales of trouble from 
childish lips, and will tie up little cut 
fingers just as sympathetically as her 
neighbour who folds her arms and who 
broadly hints that “wimmen’s spear is 
to hum!” 

Whether the literary woman be robed 


tEbe jF(n»be»5fecle Woman 

227 

in silk and sealskin, or whether she rejoices 
in the possession of only one best gown, she 
may, nevertheless, be contented and happy. 

Whether she lives in a modest cottage, 
or in a fashionable home, she may be the 
same sweet woman, with cheerful face and 
pleasant voice — with a broad human sym- 
pathy which makes her whole life glad. 

Be she princess, or Cinderella, she may 
be still her husband’s confidant and 
cherished friend, to whom he may confide 
his business troubles and perplexities, 
certain always of her tender consolation 
and ready sympathy. She may be quick 
and versatile, doing well whatever she 
does at all, for her creed declares that 
“whatever is honest is honourable.” 

She glories in her womanhood and has 
no sympathy with anything which tends 
to degrade it. 

All hail to the woman of the twentieth 
century; let fin de siecle stand for all that 
is best and noblest in womanhood: for 
liberty, equality, and fraternity; for right, 
truth, and justice. 

Cbe 

Jftn.be# 

Siecle 

tUoman 



228 

TCbreabs of Greg anb <Bol& 

Zb c 

Steele 

‘Cdoman 

All hail the widespread movement for 
the higher education of woman, for in 
intellectual development is the future of 
posterity, in study is happiness, through 
the open door of the college is the key of a 
truer womanhood, a broader humanity, and 
a brighter hope. In education along the 
lines of the broadest and wisest culture is 
to be found the emancipation of the race. 



229 

Gbe flDoon fiDalben 

HPHERE ’s a wondrous land of misty gold 

1 Beyond the sunset’s bars. 

There ’s a silver boat on a sea of blue, 

And the tips of its waves are stars. 

And idly rocking to and fro, 

Her cloud robes floating by, 

There ’s a maiden fair, with sunny hair, 

The queen of the dreamy sky. 

Gbc 

(boon 

flDafaen 



230 


f)er 

So n'» 
min 

Iber Son’s UUUfe 

HTHE venerable mother-in-law joke ap- 
* pears in the comic papers with 
astonishing regularity. For a time, per- 
haps, it may seem to be lost in the mists 
of oblivion, but even while one is rejoicing 
at its absence it returns to claim its original 
position at the head of the procession. 

There are two sides to everything, 
even to an old joke, and the artist always 
pictures the man’s dismay when his wife’s 
mother comes for a visit. Nobody ever 
sees a drawing of a woman’s mother-in- 
law, and yet, the bitterness and sadness 
lie mainly there — between the mother and 
the woman his son has chosen for his 

wife. 

It is a pleasure to believe that the aver- 
age man is a gentleman, and his inborn 
respect for his own mother, if nothing else, 


*>er Son’s Wife 

231 

will usually compel an outward show of 
politeness to every woman, even though 
she may be a constant source of irritation. 
Grey hair has its own claims upon a young 
man’s deference, and, in the business world, 
he is obliged to learn to hold his tongue, 
hide his temper, and “assume a virtue 
though he has it not. ’’ 

The mother’s welcome from her daugh- 
ter’s husband depends much upon herself. 
Her long years of marriage have been in 
vain if they have not taught her to watch 
a man’s moods and tenses; when to speak 
and when to be silent, and how to avoid 
useless discussion of subjects on which 
there is a pronounced difference of opinion. 
Leaving out the personal equation, the 
older and more experienced woman is 
better fitted to get along peaceably with a 
man than the young girl who has her 
wisdom yet to acquire. 

Moreover, it is to the daughter’s interest 
to cement a friendship between her mother 
and her husband, and so she stands as a 
shield between the two she holds dearest, 

Uer 

Son's 

TOlifc 



232 

TTbrea&s of ©rey? anb ©olb 

«3Ct 

Son's 

TJCUfe 

to exercise whatever tact she may possess 
toward an harmonious end. 

" A son ’s a son till he gets him a wife, 

But a daughter 's a daughter all the days of 
her life.” 

Thus the old saying runs, and there is a 
measure of truth in it, more 's the pity. 
Marriage and a home of her own interfere 
but little with a daughter's devotion to 
her mother, even though the daily com- 
panionship be materially lessened. The 
feeling is there and remains unchanged, 
unless it grows stronger through the new 
interests on both sides. 

If a man has won his wife in spite of her 
mother's opposition, he can well afford to 
be gracious and forget the ancient grudge. 
It is his part, too, to prove to the mother 
how far she was mistaken, by making the 
girl who trusted him the happiest wife in 
the world. The woman who sees her 
daughter happy will have little against her 
son-in-law, except that primitive, tribal 
instinct which survives in most of us, and 


tier Son’s Wife 

233 

jealously guards those of our own blood 
from the aggression of another family or 
individual. 

One may as well admit that a good hus- 
band is a very scarce article, and that the 
mother’s anxiety for her daughter is well- 
founded. No man can escape the sensa- 
tion of being forever on trial in the eyes 
of his wife’s mother, and woe to him if he 
makes a mistake or falters in his duty! 
Things which a woman would gladly con- 
done in her husband are unpardonable sins 
in the man who has married her daughter, 
and taken her from a mother’s loving care. 

A good husband and a good man are not 
necessarily the same thing. Many a scape- 
grace has been dearly loved by his wife, and 
many a highly respected man has been 
secretly despised by his wife and children. 
When the prison doors open to discharge 
the sinners who have served long sentences, 
the wives of those who have been good 
husbands are waiting for them with open 
arms. The others have long since taken 
advantage of the divorce laws. 

Dec 

Son's 

mite 



2 34 

TCbceafcs of Greg anO ©olb 

Dtt 

Bon'e 

Wlife 

Since women know women so well, 
perhaps it is only natural for a mother to 
feel that no girl who is good enough for her 
son ever has been bom. All the small 
deceits, the little schemes and frailties, 
are as an open book in the eyes of other 

women. 

‘ ‘If you were a man,” said one girl to 
another, “ and knew women as well as you 
do now, whom would you marry?” 

The other girl thought for a moment, and 
then answered unhesitatingly: “I’d stay 
single.” 

Women are always suspicious of each 
other, and the one who can deceive another 
woman is entitled to her laurels for clever- 
ness. With the keen insight and quick 
intuition of the woman on either side of 
him, when these women are violently 
opposed to each other, no man need look 
for peace. 

In spite of their discernment, women are 
sadly deficient in analysis when it comes to 
a question of self. Neither wife nor 
mother can clearly see her relation to the 


ter Son’s TOUfe 

235 

man they both love. Blinded by passion- 
ate devotion and eager for power, both 
women lose sight of the truth, and torment 
themselves and each other with unfounded 
jealousy and distrust. 

In no sense are wife and mother rivals, 
nor can they ever be so. Neither could 
take the place of the other for a single 
instant, and the wife foolishly guards the 
point where there is no danger, for, of all 
the women in the world, his mother and 
sisters are the only ones who could never 
by any possibility usurp her place. 

A woman need only ask herself if she 
would like to be the mother of her hus- 
band — to exchange the love which she 
now has for filial affection — fora tempor- 
ary clearness of her troubled skies. The 
mother need only ask' herself if she would 
surrender her position for the privilege of 
being her son’s wife, if she seeks for light 
on her dark path. 

Yet, in spite of this, the two are often 
open and acknowledged rivals. A woman 
recently wrote to the “etiquette depart- 

fJCt 

fSon*8 

rcufe 


236 

fEbreabs of ©rep anb (BolD 

*>er 

Son’B 

WUfe 

ment” of a daily paper to know whether 
she or her son’s fiancee should make the 
first call. In answering the question, the 
head of the department, who, by the way, 
has something of a reputation for good 
sense, wrote as follows: “It is your place 
to make the first call, and you have my 
sympathy in your difficult task. You 
must be brave, for you are going to look 
into the eyes of a woman whom your son 
loves better than he does you!” “Better 
than he does you!” That is where all the 
trouble lies, for each wishes to be first in a 
relation where no comparison is possible. 

When an American yacht first won the 
cup, Queen Victoria was watching the 
race. When she was told that the America 
was in the lead, she asked what boat was 
second. “Your Majesty,” replied the 
naval officer sadly, “there is no second!” 

So, between wife and mother there is no 
second place, and it is possible for each to 
own the whole of the loved one’s heart, 
without infringing or even touching upon 
the rights of the other. 


Dec Son’s WUfe 

237 

Few of the passengers on a lake steamer, 
during a trip in northern waters a few 
years since, will ever forget a certain 
striking group. Mother and son, and the 
son’s fiancee, were off for a week’s vacation. 
The mother was tall and stately, with 
snow-white hair and a hard face deeply 
seamed with wrinkles, and with the fire of 
southern countries burning in her faded 
blue eyes. The son was merely a nice 
boy, with a pleasant face, and the girl, 
though not pretty, had a fresh look about 
her which was very attractive. 

She wore an engagement ring, so he must 
have cared for her, but otherwise no one 
would have suspected it. From beginning 
to end, his attention was centred upon 
his mother. He carried his mother’s 
wraps, but the girl carried her own. He 
talked to the mother, and the girl could 
speak or not, just as she chose. Never 
for an instant were the two alone together. 
They sat on the deck until late at night, 
with the mother between them. When 
they changed, the son took his own chair 

t>er 

Son's 

Wife 


238 

ZTbreaCs of ©re? an& ©ol5 

fttt 

Son’s 

TKUfc 

and his mother’s, while the girl dragged 
hers behind them. At the end of their 
table in the cabin, the mother sat between 
them at the head. Once, purely by 
accident, the girl slipped into the nearest 
chair, which happened to be the mother’s, 
and the deadly silence could be felt even 
two tables away. The girl turned pale, 
then the son said: “You ’ll take the head 
of the table, won’t you, mother? ” 

The steely tone of her voice could be 
heard by every one as she said, “No!” 

The girl ate little, and soon excused 
herself to go to her stateroom, but the 
next day things were as before, and the 
foolish old mother had her place next to 
her son. 

Discussion was rife among the passen- 
gers, till an irreverent youth ended it by 
saying: “Mamma ’s got the rocks; that ’s 
the why of it ! ” 

Perhaps it was, but one wonders why a 
man should slight his promised wife so 
publicly, even to please a mother with 
“rocks!” 


Der Son’s TWUfe 

239 

To the mother who adores her son, every 
girl who smiles at him has matrimonial 
designs. When he falls in love, it is because 
he has been entrapped — she seldom con- 
siders him as being the aggressive one of the 
two. The mother of the girl feels the same 
way, and, in the lower circles, there is 
occasionally an illuminating time when 
the two mothers meet. 

Each is made aware how the other's 
offspring has given the entrapped one no 
peace, and how the affair has been the 
scandal of two separate neighbourhoods, 
more eligible partners having been lost 
by both sides. 

In the Declaration of Independence 
there is no classification of the rights of 
the married, but the clause regarding “life, 
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" has 
been held pointedly to refer to the matri- 
monial state. If the mother would accord 
to her daughter-in-law the same rights she 
claimed at the outset of her own married 
life, the relation would be perceptibly 
smoother in many instances. 

Der 

Son'* 

TOUfe 



240 

UbreaOs of <Sreg anO <3olD 

t>er 

Son's 

Wife 

When a woman marries, she has a right 
to expect the love of her husband, material 
support, a home of her own, even though 
it be only two tiny rooms, and absolute 
freedom from outside interference. It is 
her life, and she must live it in her own way, 
and a girl of spirit will live it in her own 
way, without taking heed of the conse- 
quences, if she is pushed too far. 

On the other hand, the mother who bore 
him still has proprietary rights. She may 
reasonably claim a share of his society, a 
part of his earnings, if she needs financial 
assistance, and his interest in all that 
nearly concerns her. If she expects to be 
at the head of his house, with the wife as 
a sort of a boarder, she need not be sur- 
prised if there is trouble. 

Marriage brings to a girl certain freedom, 
but it gives her no superiority to her 
husband’s family. A chain is as strong as 
its weakest link, and the members of a 
family do not rise above the general level. 
Every one of them is as good as the man 
she has married, and she is not above any 


iber Son’s XffiUfe 

241 

of them, unless her own personality com- 
mands a higher position. 

She treasonably violates the confidence 
placed in her if she makes a discreditable 
use of any information coming to her 
through her association with her husband’s 
family. There are skeletons in every 
closet, and she may not tell even her own 
mother of what she has seen in the other 
house. A single word breathed against 
her husband’s family to an outsider stamps 
her as a traitor, who deserves a traitor’s 
punishment. 

The girl who tells her most intimate 
friend that the mother of her fiance “is 
an old cat, ” by that act has lowered herself 
far below the level of any self-respecting 
cat. Even if outward and visible disgrace 
comes to the family of her husband, she is 
unworthy if she does not hold her head 
high and let the world see her loyalty. 

Marriage gives her no right to criticise 
any member of her husband’s family; 
their faults are out of her reach except by 
the force of tactful example. Her con- 

Ibet 

Son's 

UBife 



242 

XTbreabs of ©re? an& ©olb 

Uet 

Son's 

TJCUfe 

cern is with herself and him, not his family, 
and a wise girl, at the beginning of her 
married life, will draw a sharp line between 
her affairs and those of others, and will 
stay on her own side of the line. 

When a man falls in love with a thought- 
less butterfly, his womenfolk may be 
pardoned if they stand aghast a moment 
before they regain their self-command. 
In a way it is like a guest who is given the 
freedom of the house, and who, when her 
visit is over, tells her friends that the 
parlour carpet was turned, and the stairs 
left undusted. 

Another household is intimately opened 
to the woman whom the son has married, 
and the members of it can make no defence. 
She can betray them if she chooses; there 
is nothing to shield them except her love 
for her husband, and too often that is 
insufficient. 

A girl seldom stops to think what she 
owes to her husband’s mother. Twenty- 
five or thirty years ago, the man she loves 
was born. Since then there has been no 


t>er Son’s TWltte 

243 

time, sleeping or waking, when he has not 
been in the thoughts of the mother who has 
sought to do her best by him. She gave 
her life wholly to the demands of her child, 
without a moment’s hesitation. 

She has sacrificed herself in countless 
ways, all through those years, in order that 
he might have his education, his pleasures, 
and his strong body. With every day he 
has grown nearer and dearer to her; every 
day his loss would have been that much 
harder to bear. 

In quiet talks in the twilight, she teaches 
him to be gentle and considerate, to be 
courteous to every woman because a 
woman gave him life ; to be brave, noble, 
and tender; to be strong and fine; to 
choose honour with a crust, rather than 
shame with plenty. 

Then comes the pretty butterfly, with 
whom her son is in love. Is it strange 
that the heart of the mother tightens 
with sudden pain? 

With never a thought, the girl takes it 
all as her due. She would write a gracious 

ter 

Sen'* 

mUife 


244 

TOreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Uer 

Son’* 

ICUfe 

note of thanks to the friend who sent her a 
pretty handkerchief, but for the woman 
who is the means of satisfying her heart’s 
desire she has not even toleration. All the 
sweetness and beauty of his adoring love 
are a gift to her, unwilling too often, per- 
haps, but a gift nevertheless, from his 
mother. 

Long years of life have taught the mother 
what it may mean and what, alas, it does 
too often mean. Memories only are her 
portion ; she need expect nothing now. He 
may not come to see his mother for an 
old familiar talk, because his wife either 
comes with him, or expects him to be at 
home. He has no time for his mother’s 
interests or his mother’s friends; there is 
scant welcome in his home for her, because 
between them has come an alien presence 
which never yields or softens. 

Strangely, and without any definite 
idea of the change, he comes to see his 
mother as she is. Once, she was the most 
beautiful woman in the world, and her 
roughened hands were lovely because they 


tier Son’s WUfe 

245 

had toiled for him. Once, her counsel was 
wise, her judgment good, and the gift of 
feeling which her motherhood brought her 
was seen as generous sympathy. 

Now, by comparison with a bright, well- 
dressed wife, he sees what an “old frump” 
his mother is. She is shabby and old- 
fashioned, clinging to obsolete forms of 
speech, hysterical and emotional. When 
the mists of love have cleared from her 
boy’s eyes, she may just as well give up, 
because there is no return, save in that 
other mist which comes too late, when 
mother is at rest. 

The wife who tries to keep alive her 
husband’s love for his family, not only in 
his heart, but in outward observance as 
well, serves her own interests even better 
than theirs. The love of the many comes 
with the love of the one, and just as truly 
as he loves his sweetheart better because 
of his mother and sisters, he may love them 
better because of her. 

The poor heart-hungry mother, who 
stands by with brimming eyes, fearful 

t)ec 

Son's 

unite 



246 

Ubreabs of (Breg anb ©olb 

ter 

Sen's 

mite 

that the joy of her life may be taken from 
her, will be content with but little if she 
may but keep it for her own. It is only a 
little while at the longest, for the end of 
the journey is soon, but sunset and after- 
glow would have some of the rapture of 
dawn, if her son's wife opened the door of 
her young heart and said with true sin- 
cerity and wells of tenderness: “Mother — 
Come!” 



247 

a Xullabp 

Sleep, baby, sleep, 

The twilight breezes blow, 

The flower bells are ringing, 

The birds are twittering low, 

. Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep, 

The whippoorwill is calling, 

The- stars are twinkling faintly, 

The dew is softly falling, 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep, 

Upon your pillow lying, 

The rushes whisper to the stream, 

The summer day is dying, 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

a 

lullaby 


248 


Ube 

dressing* 

Sack 

Uabtt 

lib e Drcssino^Sacb Ibabit 

QOMEONE has said that a dressing-sack 
^ is only a Mother Hubbard with a 
college education. Accepting this state- 
ment as a great truth, one is inclined to 
wonder whether education has improved 
the Mother Hubbard, since another clever 
person has characterised a college as “a 
place where pebbles are polished and 
diamonds are dimmed !” 

The bond of relationship between the 
two is not at first apparent, yet there are 
subtle ties of kinship between the two. If 
we take a Hubbard and cut it off at the 
hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a 
yoke. The dressing-sack, however, cannot 
be walked on, even when the wearer is 
stooping, and in this respect it has the 
advantage of the other; it is also supposed 
to fit in the back, but it never does. 


TLbc Dressfng-Sacf? Ibabtt 

249 

Doubtless in the wise economy of the 
universe, where every weed has its func- 
tion, even this garment has its place — 
else it would not be. 

Possibly one may take a nap, or arrange 
one’s crown of glory to better advantage 
in a “ boudoir negligee, ” or an invalid may 
be thus tempted to think of breakfast. 
Indeed, the habit is apt to begin during 
illness, when a friend presents the ailing 
lady with a dainty affair of silk and lace 
which inclines the suffering soul to fri- 
volities. Presently she sits up, takes 
notice, and plans more garments of the 
sort, so that after she fully recovers all 
the world may see these becoming things ! 

The worst of the habit is that all the 
world does see. Fancy runs riot with one 
pattern, a sewing-machine, and all the 
remnants a single purse can compass. The 
lady with a kindly feeling for colour 
browses along the bargain counter and 
speedily acquires a rainbow for her own. 
Each morning she assumes a different 
phase, and, at the end of the week, one’s 

Ube 

dressings 

Sack 

Uabit 



250 

ZIbrea&s of ©re? anb ©olb 

ttbe 

Dressing* 

Sacfc 

fDabit 

recollection of her is lost in a kaleidoscopic 
whirl. 

Red, now — is anything prettier than 
red? And how the men admire it! Does 
not the dark lady build wisely who dons a 
red dressing-sack on a cold morning, that 
her husband may carry a bright bit of 
colour to the office in his fond memories 

of home? 

A book with a red cover, a red cushion, 
crimson draperies, and scarlet ribbons, are 
all notoriously pleasing to monsieur — 
why not a red dressing-sack? 

If questioned, monsieur does not know 
why, yet gradually his passion for red 
will wane, then fail. Later in the game, 
he will be affronted by the colour, even as 
the gentleman cow in the pasture. It is 
not the colour, dear madame, but the shift- 
less garment, which has wrought this 
change. 

There are few who dare to assume pink, 
for one must have a complexion of peaches 
and cream, delicately powdered at that, 
before the rosy hues are becoming. Yet, 



Zbc 2>res8tng=5acft tfmbit 

251 

the sallow lady, with streaks of grey in her 
hair, crow’s feet around her eyes, and little 
time tracks registered all over her face, 
will put on a pink dressing-sack when she 
gets ready for breakfast. She would 
scream with horror at the thought of a 
pink and white organdie gown, made over 
rosy taffeta, but the kimono is another 
story. 

Green dressing-sacks are not often seen, 
but more ’s the pity, for in the grand array 
of colour nothing should be lacking, and 
the wearers of these garments never seem 
to stop to think whether or not they are 
becoming. What could be more cheerful 
on a cloudy morning than a flannel negligee 
of the blessed shade of green consecrated 
to the observance of the seventeenth of 

March? 

It looks as well as many things which 
are commonly welded into dressing-sacks; 
then why this invidious distinction? 

When we approach blue in our dressing- 
sack rainbow, speech becomes pitifully 
weak. Ancient maidens and matrons, with 

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olive skins, proudly assume a turquoise neg- 
ligee. Blue flannel, with cascades of white 
lace — could anything be mere attractive? 
It has only one rival — the garment of 
lavender eiderdown flannel, the button- 
holes stitched with black yam, which the 
elderly widow too often puts on when the 
tide of her grief has turned. 

The combination of black with any 
shade of purple is well fitted to produce 
grief, even as the cutting of an onion will 
bring tears. Could the dear departed 
see his relict in the morning, with lavender 
eiderdown environment, he would appre- 
ciate his mercies as never before. 

The speaking shades of yellow and 
orange are much affected by German 
ladies for dressing-sacks, and also for the 
knitted tippets which our Teutonic friends 
wear, in and out of the house, from Octo- 
ber to July. Canary yellow is delicate and 
becoming to most, but it is German taste 
to wear orange. 

At first, perhaps, with a sense of the 
fitness of things, the negligee is worn only 


Ube ©cesstng»Sact! ttmbtt 

253 

in one’s own room. She says: “It’s so 
comfortable!” There are degrees in com- 
fort, varying from the easy, perfect fit of 
one’s own skin to a party gown which 
dazzles envious observers, and why is the 
adjective reserved for the educated but 
abbreviated Mother Hubbard? 

“The apparel oft proclaims the man,” 
and even more is woman dependent upon 
her clothes for physical, moral, and in- 
tellectual support. An uncorseted body 
will soon make its influence felt upon the 
mind. The steel-and- whalebone spine 
which properly reinforces all feminine 
vertebra is literally the backbone of a 
woman’s self-respect. 

Would the iceman or the janitor hesi- 
tate to “talk back” to the uncorseted 
lady in a pink dressing-sack? — Hardly! 

But confront the erring man with a 
quiet, dignified woman in a crisp shirt 
waist and a clean collar — verily he will 
think twice before he ventures an excuse 
for his failings. 

The iceman and the grocery boy see 

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more dressing-sacks than most others, for 
they are privileged to approach the back 
doors of residences, and to hold conversa- 
tions with the lady of the house, after the 
departure of him whose duty and pleasure 
it is to pay for the remnants. And in the 
lower strata they are known by their 
clothes. 

* 1 Fifty pounds for the red dressing-sack, ” 
says the iceman to his helper, “and a 
hundred for the blue. Step lively now!” 

And how should madame know that her 
order for a steak, a peck of potatoes, and 
two lemons, is registered in the grocery 
boy’s book under the laconic title , 1 1 Pink ’ ’ ? 

After breakfast, when she sits down to 
read the paper and make her plans for the 
day, the insidious dressing-sack gets in its 
deadly work. 

“I won’t dress,” she thinks, “until I get 
ready to go out.” After luncheon, she is 
too tired to go out, and too nearly dead to 
dress. 

Friends come in, perhaps, and say : “ Oh, 


Tlbe ©ressingsSacft Ibabtt 

255 

how comfortable you look ! Is n’t that a 
dear kimono?” Madame plumes herself 
with conscious pride, for indeed it is a dear 
kimono, and already she sees herself with 
a reputation for “exquisite negligee.” 

The clock strikes six, and presently the 
lord of the manor comes home to be fed. 
“I’m dreadfully sorry, dear, you should 
find me looking so,” says the lady of his 
heart, “ but I just have n’t felt well enough 
to dress. You don’t mind, do you?” 

The dear, good, subdued soul says he is 
far from minding, and dinner is like break- 
fast as far as dressing-sacks go. 

Perhaps, in the far depths of his nature, 
the man wonders why it was that, in the 
halcyon days of courtship, he never beheld 
his beloved in the midst of a gunny — no, a 
dressing-sack. Of course, then, she did n’t 
have to keep house, and did n’t have so 
many cares to tire her. Poor little thing! 
Perhaps she is n’t well ! 

Isn’t she? Let another woman tele- 
phone that she has tickets for the matinee, 
and behold the transformation! Within 

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certain limits and barring severe head- 
aches, a woman is always well enough to do 
what she wants to do — and no more. 

As the habit creeps upon its victim, she 
loses sight of the fact that there are other 
clothes. If she has a golf cape, she may 
venture to go to the letter-box or even to 
market in her favourite garment. After 
a while, when the habit is firmly fixed, a 
woman will wear a dressing-sack all the 
time — that is, some women will, except on 
rare and festive occasions. Sometimes in 
self-defence, she will say that her husband 
loves soft, fluffy feminine things, and can’t 
bear to see her in a tailor-made outfit. 
This is why she wears the “soft fluffy 
things,” which, with her, always mean 
dressing-sacks, all the time he is away from 
home, as well as when he is there. 

It is a mooted question whether shift- 
lessness causes dressing-sacks, or dressing- 
sacks cause shiftlessness, but there is no 
doubt about the loving association of the 
two. The woman who has nothing to do, 
and not even a shadow of a purpose in life, 


T£be E>ressing=Sacb Ibabtt 

257 

will enshrine her helpless back in a dressing- 
sack. She can't wear corsets, because, 
forsooth, they “hurt" her. She can’t 
sit at the piano, because it ’s hard on her 
back. She can’t walk, because she “is n’t 
strong enough. ’’ She can’t sew, because it 
makes a pain between her shoulders, and 
indeed why should she sew when she has 
plenty of dressing-sacks? 

This type of woman always boards, 
if she can , or has plenty of servants at her 
command, and, in either case, her mind is 
free to dwell upon her troubles. 

First, there is her own weak physical 
condition. Just wait until she tells you 
about the last pain she had. She does n’t 
feel like dressing for dinner, but she will 
try to wash her face, if you will excuse her ! 
When she returns, she has plucked up 
enough energy to change her dressing- 
sack! 

The only cure for the habit is a violent 
measure which few indeed are brave enough 
to adopt. Make a bonfire of the offensive 
garments, dear lady ; then stay away from 

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the remnant counters, and after a while 
you will become immune. 

Nothing is done in a negligee of this sort 
which cannot be done equally well in a 
shirt waist, crisp and clean, with a collar 
and belt. 

There is a popular delusion to the effect 
that household tasks require slipshod gar- 
ments and unkempt hair, but let the frowsy 
ones contemplate the trained nurse in her 
spotless uniform, with her snowy cap and 
apron and her shining hair. Let the doubt- 
ful ones go to a cooking school, and see a 
neat young woman, in a blue gingham 
gown and a white apron, prepare an eight- 
course dinner and emerge spotless from 
the ordeal. We get from life, in most cases, 
exactly what we put into it. The world 
is a mirror which gives us smiles or frowns, 
as we ourselves may choose. The woman 
who faces the world in a shirt waist will get 
shirt-waist appreciation, while for the 
dressing-sack there is only a slipshod 
reward. 




259 

In tbe flDeabow 

'T'HE flowers bow their dainty heads, 

1 And see in the shining stream 

A vision of sky and silver clouds, 

As bright as a fairy’s dream. 

The great trees nod their sleepy boughs, 
The song birds come and go, 

And all day long, to the waving ferns 

The south wind whispers low. 

All day among the blossoms sweet, 

The laughing sunbeams play, 

And down the stream, in rose-leaf boats 
The fairies sail away. 

In tbe 
®ca&ow 


260 

• 

Solution 
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©ne tKHoman’0 Solution of tbe 
Servant problem 

DEING a professional woman, my re- 
^ quirements in the way of a house- 
maid were rather special. While at times 

I can superintend my small household, 
and direct my domestic affairs, there are 
long periods during which I must have 
absolute quiet, untroubled by door bell, 
telephone, or the remnants of roast beef. 

There are two of us, in a modern six 
room apartment, in a city where the 
servant problem has forced a large and 
ever-increasing percentage of the popula- 
tion into small flats. We have late break- 
fasts, late dinners, a great deal of company, 
and an amount of washing, both house and 
personal, which is best described as “un- 
holy.” 

Five or six people often drop in inform- 


Solution of tbe Servant problem 

261 

ally, and unexpectedly, for the evening, 
which means, of course, a midnight 
“spread,” and an enormous pile of dishes 
to be washed in the morning. There are, 
however, some advantages connected with 
the situation. We have a laundress be- 
sides the maid ; we have a twelve-o’clock 
breakfast on Sunday instead of a dinner, 
getting the cold lunch ourselves in the 
evening, thus giving the girl a long after- 
noon and evening; and we are away 
from home a great deal, often staying 
weeks at a time. 

The eternal “good wages to right party ” 
of the advertisements was our inducement 
also, but, apparently, there were no 
/‘right parties!” 

The previous incumbent, having de- 
parted in a fit of temper at half an hour’s 
notice, and left me, so to speak, “in the 
air,” with dinner guests on the horizon a 
day ahead, I betook myself to an intelli- 
gence office, where, strangely enough, there 
seems to be no intelligence, and grasped the 
first chance of relief. 

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Nothing more unpromising could pos- 
sibly be imagined. The new maid was 
sad, ugly of countenance, far from strong 
physically, and in every way hopeless and 
depressing. She listened, unemotionally 
to my glowing description of the .situation. 
Finally she said, “Ay tank Ay try it.'” 

She came, looked us over, worked a part 
of a week, and announced that she could n’t 
stay. “Ay can’t feel like home here,’’ 
she said. “Ay am not satisfied.” 

She had been in her last place for three 
years, and left because “my’s lady, she go 
to Europe. ’ ’ I persuaded her to try it for a 
while longer, and gave her an extra after- 
noon or two off, realising that she must be 
homesick. 

After keeping us on tenter-hooks for two 
weeks, she sent for her trunk. I discovered 
that she was a fine laundress, carefully 
washing and ironing the things which were 
too fine to go into the regular wash ; a most 
excellent cook, her kitchen and pantry were 
at all times immaculate ; she had no 
followers, and few friends ; meals were 


Solution of tbc Servant problem 

263 

ready on the stroke of the hour, and she 
had the gift of management. 

Offset to this was a furious temper, an 
atmosphere of gloom and depression which 
permeated the house and made us feel 
funereal, impertinence of a quality difficult 
to endure, and the callous, unfeeling, al- 
most inhuman characteristics which often 
belong in a high degree to the Swedes. 

For weeks I debated with myself 
whether or not I could stand it to have her 
in the house. I have spent an hour on my 
own back porch, when I should have been 
at work, because I was afraid to pass 
through the room which she happened to 
be cleaning. Times without number, a 
crisp muffin, or a pot of perfect coffee, 
has made me postpone speaking the 
fateful words which would have separated 
us. She sighed and groaned and wept at 
her work, worried about it, and was a 
fiend incarnate if either of us was five 

minutes late for dinner. We often hurried 
through the evening meal so as to leave her 
free for her evening out, even though I had 

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long since told her not to wash the dishes 
after dinner, but to pile them neatly in the 
sink and leave them until morning. 

Before long, however, the strictly human 
side of the problem began to interest me. 

I had cherished lifelong theories in regard 
to the brotherhood of man and the up- 
lifting power of personal influence. I had 
at times been tempted to try settlement 
work, and here I had a settlement subject 
in my own kitchen. 

There was not a suggestion of fault with 
the girl’s work. She kept her part of the 
contract, and did it well ; but across the wall 
between us, she glared at — and hated — me. 

But, deliberately, I set to work in defence 
of my theory. I ignored the impertinence, 
and seemingly did not hear the crash of 
dishes and the banging of doors. When 
it came to an issue, I said calmly, though 
my soul quaked within me: “You are not 
here to tell me what you will do and what 
you won’t. You are here to carry out my 
orders, and when you cannot, it is time for 
you to go.” 


Solution of tbc Servant problem 

265 

If she asked me a question about her 
work which I could not answer offhand, I 
secretly consulted a standard cook-book, 
and later gave her the desired information 
airily. I taught her to cook many of the 
things which I could cook well, and im- 
bued her with a sort of sneaking respect for 
my knowledge. Throughout, I treated 
her with the perfect courtesy which one 
lady accords to another, ignoring the 
impertinence . I took pains to say 1 ‘ please* ’ 
and “thank you.” Many a time I bit 
my lips tightly against my own rising rage, 
and afterward in calmness recognised a 
superior opportunity for self-discipline. 

For three or four months, while the 
beautiful theory wavered in the balance, 
we fought — not outwardly, but beneath 
the surface. Daily, I meditated a sum- 
mary discharge, dissuaded only by an 
immaculate house and perfectly cooked 
breakfasts and dinners. I still cherished 
a lingering belief in personal influence, 
in spite of the wall which reared itself 
between us. 

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A small grey kitten, with wobbly legs 
and an infantile mew, made the first breach 
in the wall. She took care of it, loved it, 
petted it, and began to smile semi-occa- 
sionally. She, too, said “ please” and 
“ thank you.” My husband suggested 
that we order ten kittens, but I let the 
good work go on with one, for the time 
being. Gradually, I learned that the 
immovable exterior was the natural pro- 
tection against an abnormal sensitiveness 
both to praise and blame. Besides the 
cat, she had two other “weak spots” — 
an unswerving devotion to a widowed 
sister with two children, whom she partially 
supported, and a love for flowers almost 
pathetic. 

As I could, without seeming to make a 
point of it, I sent things to the sister and 
the children — partially worn curtains, bits 
of ribbons, little toys, and the like. I made 
her room as pretty and dainty as my own, 
though the furnishings were not so expen- 
sive, and gave her a potted plant in a brass 
jar. When flowers were sent to me, I 



Solution of tbe Servant problem 

267 

gave her a few for the vase in her room. 
She began to say “we” instead of “you.” 
She spoke of “our” spoons, or “our” 
table linen. She asked, what shall “we” 
do about this or that? what shall “we” 
have for dinner? instead of “what do you 
want?” She began to laugh when she 
played with the kitten, and even to sing 
at her work. 

When she did well, I praised her, as I 
had all along, but instead of saying, “Iss 
dat so?” when I remarked that the muffins 
were delicious or the dessert a great success, 
her face began to light up, and a smile take 
the place of the impersonal comment. 
The furious temper began to wane, or, at 
least, to be under better control. Guests 
occasionally inquired, “What have you 
done to that maid of yours?” 

Five times we have left her, for one or 
two months at a time, on full salary, with 
unlimited credit at the grocery, and with 
from fifty to one hundred dollars in cash. 
During the intervals we heard nothing from 
her. We have returned each time to an 

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immaculate house, a smiling maid, a 
perfectly cooked and nicely served meal, 
and an account correct to a penny, with 
vouchers to show for it, of the sum with 
which she had been intrusted. 

I noticed each time a vast pride in the 
fact that she had been so trusted, and 
from this developed a gratifying loyalty 
to the establishment. I had told her once 
to ask her sister and children to spend the 
day with her while we were gone. It 
seems that the children were noisy, and 
the lady in the apartment below us came 
up to object. 

An altercation ensued, ending with a 
threat from the lady downstairs to “tell 
Mrs. M. when she came home.” Annie 
told me herself, with flashing eyes and 
shaking hands. I said, calmly: “The 
children must have been noisy, or she 
would not have complained. You are 
used to them, and besides it would sound 
worse downstairs than up here. But it 
does n't amount to anything, for I had 
told you you could have the children here, 


Solution ot tbe Servant problem 

269 

and if I had n't been able to trust you I 
wouldn't have left you." Thus the 
troubled waters were calmed. 

The crucial test of her qualities came 
when I entered upon a long period of 
exhaustive effort. The first day, we both 
had a hard time, as her highly specialised 
Baptist conscience would not permit her 
to say I was "not at home," when I was 
merely writing a book. After she thor- 
oughly understood that I was not to be 
disturbed unless the house took fire, 
further quiet being insured by disconnect- 
ing the doorbell and muffling the telephone, 
things went swimmingly. 

"Annie," I said, "I want you to run 
this house until I get through with my 
book. Here is a hundred dollars to start 
with. Don’t let anybody disturb me." 
She took it with a smile, and a cheerful 
"all right." 

From that moment to the end, I had 
' even less care than I should have had in a 
well-equipped hotel. Not a sound pene- 
trated my solitude. If I went out for a 

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drink of water, she did not speak to me. 
We had delicious dinners and dainty 
breakfasts which might have waited for 
us, but we never waited a moment for 
them. She paid herself regularly every 
Monday morning, kept all receipts, sent 
out my husband’s laundry, kept a strict list 
of it, mended our clothes, managed our 
household as economically as I myself 
could have done it, and, best of all, in- 
sured me from any sort of interruption with 
a sort of fierce loyalty which is beyond 
any money value. 

Once I overheard a colloquy at my 
front door, which was briefly and decisively 
terminated thus: “Ay already tell you 
dat you not see her! She says to me, 
‘Annie, you keep dose peoples off from 
me,’ and Ay keep dem off l 1 ' I never have 
known what dear friend was thus turned 
away from my inhospitable door. 

Fully appreciating my blessings, the 
night I finished my work I went into the 
kitchen with a crisp, new, five-dollar bill. 
“Annie,” I said, “here is a little extra 



Solution of tbe Servant problem 

271 

money for you. You Ve been so nice 
about the house while I Ve been busy. ” 

She opened her eyes wide, and stared. 
“You don’t have to do dat,” she said. 

“I know I don’t,” I laughed, “but I like 
to do it.” 

“You don’t have to do dat,” she re- 
peated. ‘ ‘ Ay like to do de housekeeping.” 

“I know,” I said again, “and I like to do 
this. You ’ve done lots of things for me 
you did n’t have to do. Why should n’t 

I do something for you?” 

At that she took it, offering me a rough 
wet hand, which I took gravely. “Tank 
you,” she said, and the tears rolled down 
her cheeks. 

“You ’ve earned it,” I assured her, 
“and you deserve it, and I ’rn very glad 

I can give it to you. ” 

From that hour she has been welded to 
me in a bond which I fondly hope is in- 
destructible. She laughs and sings at her 
work, pets her beloved kitten, and diffuses 
through my six rooms the atmosphere of 
good cheer. She “looks after me,” antici- 

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pates my wishes, and dedicates to me a 
continual loyal service which has no 
equivalent in dollars and cents. She 
asked me, hesitatingly, if she might not 
get some one to fill her place for three 
months while she went back to Sweden. 

I did n’t like the idea, but I recognised 
her well-defined right. 

“ Ay not go, ” she said, “ if you not want 
me to. Ay tell my sister dat I want to 
stay wid Mrs. M. until she send me 
away.” 

I knew she would have to go some time 
before she settled down to perpetual 
residence in an alien land, so I bade her 
God-speed. She secured the substitute 
and instructed her, arranged the matter 
of wages, and vouched for her honesty, 
but not for her work. 

Before she left the city, I found that the 
substitute was hopelessly incompetent and 
stupid. When Annie came to say “good- 
bye” to me, I told her about the new girl. 
She broke down and wept. “Ay sorry Ay 
try to go, ” she sobbed. 1 ‘ Ay tell my sister 


Solution of tbe Servant problem 

273 

dere iss nobody what can take care of 
Mrs. M. lakAydo!” 

I was quite willing to agree with her, but 

I managed to dry her tears. Discovering 
that she expected to spend two nights in 
a day coach, and remembering one dread- 
ful night when I could get no berth, I 
gave her the money for a sleeping-car 
ticket both ways, as a farewell gift. The 
tears broke forth afresh. “You been so 
good to me and to my sister” she sobbed. 
“Ay can’t never forget dat!” 

“Cheer up,” I answered, wiping the 
mist from my own eyes. “Go on, and 
have the best time you ever had in your 
life, and don’t worry about me — I ’ll get 
along somehow. And if you need money 
while you are away, write to me, and 

I ’ll send you whatever you need. We ’ll 
fix it up afterward. ” 

Once again she looked at me, with 
the strangest look I have ever seen on the 
human face. 

“Tank you,” she said slowly. “Dere 
iss not many ladies would say dat. ” 

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“Perhaps not,” I replied, “but, remem- 
ber, Annie, I can trust you.” 

“Yes,” she cried, her face illumined as 
by some great inward light, “you can 
trust me!” 

I do not think she loves us yet, but I 
believe in time she will. 

The day the new girl came, I happened 
to overhear a much valued reference to 
myself: “Honestly,” she said, “Ay been 
here more dan one year, and Ay never 
hear a wrong word between her and him, 
nor between her and me. It ’s shust 
wonderful. Ay is n't been see anyting 
like it since Ay been in diss country.” 

“Is it so wonderful?” I asked myself, 
as I stole away, my own heart aglow with 
the consciousness of a moral victory, “ and 
is the lack of self-control and human 

kindness at the bottom of the American 
servant problem? Are we women such 
children that we cannot deal wisely with 
our intellectual inferiors?” And more 
than all I had given her, as I realised then 
for the first time, was the power of self- 


Solution of tbe Servant problem 

275 

discipline and self-control which she, all 
unknowingly, had developed in me. 

I have not ceased the “treatment,” 
even though the patient is nearly well. 
It costs me nothing to praise her when she 
deserves it, to take an occasional friend 
into her immaculate kitchen, and to show 
the shining white pantry shelves (without 
papers) , while she blushes and smiles with 
pleasure. It costs me nothing to see that 
she overhears me while I tell a friend over 
the telephone how capable she has been 
during the stress of my work, or how clean 
the house is when we come home after a 
long absence. It costs me nothing to send 
her out for a walk, or a visit to a near- 
by friend, on the afternoons when her 
work is finished and I am to be at home — 
nothing to call her attention to a beautiful 
sunset or a perfect day, or to tell her some 
amusing story that her simple mind can 
appreciate. It costs me nothing to tell 
her how well she looks in her cap and 
apron (only I call the cap a “hair-bow”), 
nor that one of the guests said she made 

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the best cake she had ever eaten in her 

life. 

It costs me little to give her a pretty- 
hatpin, or some other girlish trifle at 
Easter, to bring her some souvenir of our 
travels, to give her a fresh ribbon for her 
belt from my bolt, or some little toy “for 
de children. ” 

It means only a thought to say when she 
goes out, * ‘ Good-bye ! Have a good time !” 
or to say when I go out, “Good-bye! Be 
good!” It means little to me to tell her 
how much my husband or our guests have 
enjoyed the dinner, or to have him go 
into the kitchen sometimes, while she is 
surrounded by a mountain of dishes, with 
a cheery word and a fifty-cent piece. 

It is n’t much out of my way to do a bit 
of shopping for her when I am shopping 
for myself, and no trouble at all to plan 
for her new gowns, or to tell her that her 
new hat is very pretty and becoming. 

When her temper gets the better of her 
these days, I can laugh her out of it. 

“ To think,” I said once, “of a fine, capable 


Solution of tbc Servant problem 

277 

girl like you flying into a rage because 
some one has borrowed your clothesline 
without asking for it!” 

The clouds vanished with a smile. 

“ Dat iss funny of me, ” she said. 

When her work goes wrong, as of course 
it sometimes does, though rarely, and she 
is worrying for fear I shall be displeased, 

I say: “Never mind, Annie; things don’t 
always go right for any of us. Don’t 
worry about it, but be careful next 
time. ” 

It has cost me time and effort and 
money, and an infinite amount of patience 
and tact, not to mention steady warfare 
with myself, but in return, what have I? 
A housemaid, as nearly perfect, perhaps, as 
they can ever be on this faulty earth, 
permanently in my service, as I hope and 
believe. 

If any one offers her higher wages, I 
shall meet the “bid,” for she is worth as 
muqh to me as she can be to any one else. 
Besides giving me superior service, she 
has done me a vast amount of good in 

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problem 

furnishing me the needed material for the 
development of my character. 

On her own ground, she respects my 
superior knowledge. Once or twice I 
have heard her say of some friend, 
“Her’s lady, she know nodding at all 
about de housekeeping — no, nodding at 
all!” 

The airy contempt of the tone is quite 
impossible to describe. 

A neighbour whom she assisted in a 
time of domestic stress, during my absence, 
told me amusedly of her reception in her 
own kitchen. “You don’t have to come 
all de time to de kitchen to tell me,” 
remarked Annie. 

“Does n’t Mrs. M. do that?” queried 
my neighbour, lightly. 

“Ay should say not,” returned the 
capable one, indignantly. “She nefer 
come in de kitchen, and she know , too /” 

While that was not literally true, 
because I do go into my kitchen if I \yant 
to, and cook there if I like, I make a point 
of not intruding. She knows what she is 


Solution of tbe Servant problem 

279 

to do, and I leave her to do it, in peace and 
comfort. 

Briefly summarised, the solution from 
my point of view is this. Know her work 
yourself , down to the last detail; pay the 
wages which other people would be glad 
to pay for the same service; keep your 
temper, and, in the face of everything, be 
kind! Remember that housework is hard 
work — that it never stays done — that a 
meal which it takes half a day to prepare 
is disposed of in half an hour. Remember, 
too, that it requires much intelligence and 
good judgment to be a good cook, and 
that the daily tasks lack inspiration. The 
hardest part of housework must be done at 
a time when many other people are free 
for rest and enjoyment, and it carries with 
it a social bar sinister when it is done for 
money. The woman who does it for her 
board and clothes, in her own kitchen, does 
not necessarily lose caste, but doing it for 
a higher wage, in another’s kitchen, makes 
one almost an outcast. Strange and un- 
reasonable, but true. 

Solution 
of tbe 
Servant 
problem 


28 o 

ftbreabs of ©rev aitb ©olb 

Solution 
of tbe 
Servant 
problem 

It was at my own suggestion that she 
began to leave the dishes piled up in the 
sink until morning. When the room is 
otherwise immaculate, a tray of neatly 
piled plates, even if unwashed, does not 
disturb my aesthetic sense. 

Ordinarily, she is free for the evening at 
half-past seven or a quarter of eight — 
always by eight. Her evenings are hers, 
not mine, — unless I pay her extra, as I 
always do. A dollar or so counts for 
nothing in the expense of an entertainment, 
and she both earns and deserves the extra 

wage. 

If I am to entertain twenty or thirty 
people — the house will hold no more, and 

I cannot ask more than ten to dinner — I 
consult with her, decide upon the menu, 
tell her that she can have all the help she 
needs, and go my ways in peace. I can 
order the flowers, decorate the table, put 
on my best gown, and receive my guests, 
unwearied, with an easy mind. 

When I am not expecting guests, I can 
leave the house immediately after break- 


Solution of tbe Servant problem 

281 

fast, without a word about dinner, and 
return to the right sort of a meal at seven 
o’clock, bringing a guest or two with me, 
if I telephone first. 

I can work for six weeks or two months 
in a seclusion as perfect as I could have in 
the Sahara Desert, and my household, 
meanwhile, will move as if on greased 
skids. I can go away for two months and 
hear nothing from her, and yet know that 
everything is all right at home. I think 
no more about it, so far as responsibility 
is concerned, when I am travelling, than as 
if I had no home at all. When we leave 
the apartment alone in the evening, we 
turn on the most of the lights, being 
assured by the police that burglars will 
never molest a brilliantly illuminated 
house. 

The morose countenance of my ugly 
maid has subtly changed. It radiates, 
in its own way, beauty and good cheer. 
Her harsh voice is gentle, her manner is 
kind, her tastes are becoming refined, her 
ways are those of a lady. 

Solution 
of tbe 
Servant 
problem 


282 

U breads of ©rep and ©old 

Solution 
of tbe 
Servant 
Problem 

My friends and neighbours continually 
allude to the transformation as “a mira- 
cle.” The janitor remarked, in a burst of 
confidence, that he “never saw anybody 
change so.” He “reckoned,” too, that 
“it must be the folks she lives with!” 
Annie herself, conscious of a change, re- 
cently said complacently: “Ay guess Ay 
wass one awful crank when Ay first come 
here.” 

And so it happens that the highest 
satisfaction is connected with the beauti- 
ful theory, triumphantly proven now, 
against heavy odds. Whatever else I 
may have done, I have taught one woman 
the workman’s pride in her work, shown 
her where true happiness lies, and set her 
feet firmly on the path of right and joyous 
living. 



283 

So a IDloltn 

(Antonius Stradivarius, 1685.) 

\ A THAT flights of years have gone to fashion 

V V thee, 

My violin ! What centuries have wrought 

Thy sounding fibres! What dead fingers 
taught 

Thy music to awake in ecstasy 

Beyond our human dreams? Thy melody 

Is resurrection. Every buried thought 

Of singing bird, or stream, or south wind, 
fraught 

With tender message, or of sobbing sea, 

Lives once again. The tempest’s solemn roll 
Is in thy passion sleeping, till the king 

Whose touch is mastery shall sound thy soul. 
The organ tones of ocean shalt thou bring, 

The crashing chords of thunder, and the whole 
Vast harmony of God. Ah, Spirit, sing! 

Vo a 

Violin 


284 


Zbc 

©it> 

Gbe ©ID fiDatb 

/^vNE of the best things the last century 
^ has done for woman is to make 
single-blessedness appear very tolerable 
indeed, even if it be not actually desirable. 

The woman who did n't marry used to be 
looked down upon as a sort of a “left- 
over" without a thought, apparently, that 
she may have refused many a chance to 
change her attitude toward the world. 
But now, the “bachelor maid " is welcomed 
everywhere, and is not considered eccen- 
tric on account of her oneness. 

With the long records of the divorce 
courts before their eyes, it is not very 
unusual for the younger generation of 
women nowadays deliberately to choose 
spinsterhood as their independent lot in 
life. 

A girl said the other day: “It 's no use 


ftbe ©lb flDalb 

285 

to say that a woman can’t marry if she 
wants to. Look around you, and see the 
women who have married, and then ask 
yourself if there is anybody who can’t!” 

This is a great truth very concisely 
stated. It is safe to say that no woman 
ever reached twenty-five years of age, and 
very few have passed twenty, without hav- 
ing an opportunity to become somebody’s 
mate. 

A very small maiden with very bright 
eyes once came to her mother with the 
question: “Mamma, do you think I shall 
ever have a chance to get married?” 

And the mother answered: “Surely you 
will, my child; the woods are full of offers 
of marriage — no woman can avoid them. ” 

And ere many years had passed the 
maiden had learned that the wisdom of 
her mother’s prophecy was fully vindi- 
cated. 

Every one knows that a woman needs 
neither beauty, talent, nor money to win 
the deepest and sincerest love that man 
is capable of giving. 

Zbc 

©I& ADaib 


286 

TOrea&s of ©rep ant> ©ol£> 

XLbt 

Single life is, with rare exceptions, a 
matter of choice and not of necessity ; and 
while it is true that a happy married life 
is the happiest position for either man or 
woman, there are many things which are 
infinitely worse than being an old maid, 
and chiefest among these is marrying the 
wrong man ! 

The modem woman looks her future 
squarely in the face and decides according 
to her best light whether her happiness 
depends upon spinsterhood or matrimony. 
This decision is of course influenced very 
largely by the quality of her chances in 
either direction, but if the one whom she 
fully believes to be the right man comes 
along, he is likely to be able to overcome 
strong objections to the married state. 

If love comes to her from the right source, 
she takes it gladly; otherwise she bravely 
goes her way alone, often showing the 
world that some of the most mother- 
hearted women are not really mothers. 
Think of the magnificent solitude of such 
women as Florence Nightingale and our 


Ubc ©l& ZlC>atO 

287 

own splendid Frances Willard ! Who shall 
say that these, and thousands of others of 
earth's grandest souls, were not better for 
their single-heartedness in the service of 
humanity? 

A writer in a leading journal recently 
said: “The fact that a woman remains 
single is a tribute to her perception. She 
gains an added dignity from being hard 
to suit." 

This, from the pen of a man, is somewhat 
of a revelation, in the light of various 
masculine criticisms concerning superflu- 
ous women. No woman is superfluous. 
God made her, and put her into this 
world to help her fellow-beings. There is 
a little niche somewhere which she, and 
she alone, can fill. She finds her own 
completeness in rounding out the lives of 
others. 

It has been said that the average man 
may be piloted through life by one woman, 
but it must be admitted that several of 

him need somewhere near a dozen of the 
fair sex to wait upon him at the same time. 

xri* 

©to fiSato 


288 

Tlbreabs ot C$r eg anb ©olb 

TZbc 

©U> /»afb 

His wife and mother are kept “hustling,” 
while his “sisters and his aunts” are 
likely to be “on the keen jump” from the 
time his lordship enters the house until he 
leaves it ! 

But to return to the “superfluous 
woman,” — although we cannot literally 
return to her because she does not exist. 
Of the “old maid” of to-day, it is safe to 
say that she has her allotted plane of 
usefulness. She is n't the type our news- 
paper brethren delight to caricature. She 
does n’t dwell altogether upon the subject 
of “woman’s sphere,” which, by the way, 
comes very near being the plane of the 
earth’s sphere, and she need not, for her 
position is now well recognised. 

She does n’t wear corkscrew curls and 
hideous reform garments. She is a dainty, 
feminine, broad-minded woman, and a 
charming companion. Men are her friends, 
and often her lovers, in her old age as well 
as in her youth. 

Every old maid has her love story, a 
little romance that makes her heart young 


XTbe ©It) flbait) 

289 

again as she dreams it over in the firelight, 
and it calls a happy smile to the faded 
face. 

Or, perhaps, it is the old, sad story of 
a faithless lover, or a happiness spoiled 
by gossips — or it may be the scarcely less 
sad story of love and death. 

Ibsen makes two of his characters, a 
young man and woman who love each 
other, part voluntarily on the top of a 
high mountain in order that they may be 
enabled to keep their high ideals and up- 
lifting love for each other. 

So the old maid keeps her ideals, not 
through fulfilment, but through memory, 
and she is far happier than many a woman 
who finds her ideal surprisingly and dis- 
agreeably real. 

The bachelor girl and the bachelor man 
are much on the increase. Marriage is 
not in itself a failure, but the people who 
enter unwisely into this solemn covenant 
too often are not only failures, but bitter 
disappointments to those who love them 
best. 

TEbe 


290 

XTbreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Ube 

©lb ®a(b 

Life for men and women means the 
highest usefulness and happiness, for the 
terms are synonymous, neither being able 
to exist without the other. 

The model spinster of to-day is phil- 
anthropic. She is connected, not with 
innumerable charities, but with a few well- 
chosen ones. She gives freely of her time 
and money in many ways, where her left 
hand scarcely knoweth what her right 
doeth, and the record of her good works is 
not found in the chronicles of the world. 

She is literary, musical, or artistic. She 
is a devoted and loyal club member, and 
is well informed on the leading topics of 
the day, while the resources of her well- 
balanced mind are always at the service 
of her friends. 

And when all is said and done, the 
highest and truest life is within the reach 
of us all. Doing well whatever is given us 
to do will keep us all busy, and married 
or single, no woman has a right to be idle. 
The old maid may be womanly and mother- 
hearted as well as the wife and mother. 




291 

Gbe Spinster's TRubalpat 

x 


\ A 7 A.KE! For the hour of hope will soon 

V V take flight 

And on your form and features leave a blight ; 
Since Time, who heals full many an open 
wound, 

More oft than not is impolite. 

TTbe 

Spinster's 

Ktabaigat 

II 


Before my relatives began to chide, 

Methought the voice of conscience said inside: 

11 Why should you want a husband, when 
you have 

A cat who seldom will at home abide?” 


Ill 


And, when the evening breeze comes in the 
door, 

The lamp smokes like a chimney, only more; 
And yet the deacon of the church 

Is telling every one my parrot swore. 



292 

Ubreabs of Ores anb Oolb 

TThe 

Spinster's 

IRubat^at 

IV 

Behold, my aunt into my years inquires, 

Then swiftly with my parents she conspires, 
And in the family record changes dates — 

In that same book that says all men are liars. 


V 


Come, fill the cup and let the kettle sing! 

What though upon my finger gleams no ring, 
Save that cheap turquoise that I bought 
myself? 

The coming years a gladsome change may 
bring. 


VI 


Here, minion, fill the steaming cup that clears 
The skin I will not have exposed to jeers, 

And rub this wrinkle vigorously until 

The maddening crow’s-foot wholly disappears. 


VII 


And let me don some artificial bloom, 

And turn the lamps down low, and make a 
gloom 

That spreads from library to hall and stair; 
Thus do I look my best — but ah, for whom? 




293 

Gbc IRtobts of Dogs 

\AT E hear a great deal about the ‘‘rights 
’ * of men” and still more, perhaps, 
about the “rights of women,” but few 
stop to consider those which properly 
belong to the friend and companion of 
both — the dog. 

According to our municipal code, a dog 
must be muzzled from June 1 st to Septem- 
ber 30 th. The wise men who framed this 
measure either did not know, or did not 
stop to consider, that a dog perspires and 
“cools off” only at his mouth. 

Man and the horse have tiny pores 
distributed all over the body, but in the 
dog they are found only in the tongue. 

Any one who has had a fever need not 
be told what happened when these pores 
ceased to act; what, then, must be the 
sufferings of a dog on a hot day, when, 

Ub € 
YU0bt0 
©f ©000 


294 

Ubreabs ot ©rep anb ©olb 

Ttbe 

IRfobta 

Of 2>O0f 

securely muzzled, he takes his daily ex- 
ercise? 

Even on the coolest days, the barbarous 
muzzle will fret a thoroughbred almost to 
insanity, unless, indeed, he has brains to 
free himself, as did a brilliant Irish setter 
which we once knew. This wise dog would 
run far ahead of his human guardian, and 
with the help of his forepaws slip the strap 
over his slender head, then hide the offend- 
ing muzzle in the gutter, and race onward 
again. When the loss was discovered, it 
was far too late to remedy it by any 
search that could be instituted. 

And still, without this uncomfortable 
encumbrance, it is unsafe for any valuable 
dog to be seen, even on his own doorsteps, 
for the “dog-catcher” is ever on the look- 
out for blue-blooded victims. 

The homeless mongrel, to whom a pain- 
less death would be a blessing, is left to 
get a precarious living as best he may 
from the garbage boxes, and spread pesti- 
lence from house to house, but the setter, 
the collie, and the St. Bernard are choked 


tlbc IRtgbts of Dogs 

295 

into insensibility with a wire noose, hurled 
into a stuffy cage, and with the thermometer 
at ninety in the shade, are dragged through 
the blistering city, as a sop to that Cerberus 
of the law which demands for its citizens 
safety from dogs, and pays no attention 
to the lawlessness of men. 

The dog tax which is paid every year 
is sufficient to guarantee the interest of the 
owner in his dog. Howells has pitied 
“the dogless man,” and Thomas Nelson 
Page has said somewhere that “some of 
us know what it is to be loved by a dog. ” 

Countless writers have paid tribute to 
his fidelity and devotion, and to the con- 
stant forgiveness of blows and neglect 
which spring from the heart of the com- 
monest cur. 

The trained hunter, who is as truly a 
sportsman as the man who brings down the 
birds he finds, can be easily fretted into 
madness by the injudicious application of 
the muzzle. 

The average dog is a gentleman and does 
not attack people for the pleasure of it, 

ttbe 
IRfgbta 
of E>oga 



296 

tfbrea&s of ©re\? anb Oolb 

Zbc 
tftfgbts 
of S>oge 

and it is lamentably true that people who 
live in cities often find it necessary to keep 
some sort of a dog as a guardian to life 
and property. In spite of his loyalty, 
which every one admits, the dog is an 
absolute slave. Men with less sense, and 
less morality, constitute a court from which 
he has no appeal. 

Four or five years of devotion to his 
master’s interests, and four or five years 
of peaceful, friendly conduct, count for 
absolutely nothing beside the perjured 
statement of some man, or even woman, 
who, from spite against the owner, is 
willing to assert, “the dog is vicious. ” 

“He is very imprudent, a dog is,” said 
Jerome K. Jerome. “ He never makes it his 
business to inquire whether you are in the 
right or wrong — never bothers as to whether 
you are going up or down life’s ladder — never 
asks whether you are rich or poor, silly or 
wise, saint or sinner. You are his pal. That 
is enough for him, and come luck or mis- 
fortune, good repute or bad, honour or shame, 
he is going to stick to you, to comfort you, 
guard you, and give his life for you, if need 
be — foolish, brainless, soulless dog! 



TIbc iRigbts of Dogs 

297 

“Ah! staunch old friend, with your deep, 
clear eyes, and bright quick glances that take 
in all one has to say, before one has time to 
speak it, do you know you are only an animal 
and have no mind? 

“ Do you know that dull-eyed, gin-sodden 
lout leaning against the post out there is 
immeasurably your intellectual superior? Do 
you know that every little-minded selfish 
scoundrel, who never had a thought that was 
not mean and base — whose every action is a 
fraud and whose every utterance is a lie ; do 
you know that these are as much superior to 
you as the sun is to the rush-light, you hon- 
ourable, brave-hearted, unselfish brute? 

“ They are men, you know, and men are 
the greatest, noblest, wisest, and best beings 
in the universe. Any man will tell you that." 

Are the men whom we elect to public 
office our masters or our servants? If the 
former, let us change our form of govern- 
ment; if the latter, let us hope that from 
somewhere a little light may penetrate 
their craniums and that they may be 
induced to give the dog a chance. 

Ttbc 

IRfgbts 
of H>og« 


298 


UvPillabt 

GwiUgbt 

HPHE birds were hushed into silence, 

1 The clouds had sunk from sight, 

And the great trees bowed to the summer 
breeze 

That kissed the flowers good-night. 

The stars came out in the cool still air, 

From the mansions of the blest, 

And softly, over the dim blue hills, 

Night came to the world with rest. 

* 



299 

THHomen's Clotbee In fiDen’s Boobs 

\ A 7 HEN asked why women wrote better 
* * novels than men, Mr. Richard 
Le Gallienne is said to have replied, more 
or less conclusively, “They don't”; thus 
recalling Punch's famous advice to those 
about to marry. 

Happily there is no segregation in litera- 
ture, and masculine and feminine hands 
alike may dabble in fiction, as long as the 
publishers are willing. 

If we accept Zola’s dictum to the effect 
that art is nature seen through the medium 
of a temperament, the thing is possible to 
many, though the achievement may differ 
both in manner and degree. For women 
have temperament — too much of it — as 
the hysterical novelists daily testify. 

The gentleman novelist, however, 
prances in boldly, where feminine feet 

■OQlomen’0 

Glotbes 

in 

flDcn's 

Book* 


300 

flbreabs of <Brej? anb <Solb 

THflomen’g 

Clothes 

in 

flDen’s 

JBoofee 

well may fear to tread, and consequently 
has a wider scope for his writing. It is 
not for a woman to mingle in a barroom 
brawl and write of the thing as she sees it. 
The prize-ring, the interior of a cattle-ship, 
Broadway at four in the morning — these 
and countless other places are forbidden 
by her innate refinement as well as by the 
Ladies’ Own, and all the other aunties who 
have taken upon themselves the guardian- 
ship of the Home with a big H. 

Fancy the outpouring of scorn upon the 
luckless offender’s head if one should write 
to the Manners and Morals Department 
of the Ladies’ Own as follows: “Would it 
be proper for a lady novelist, in search of 
local colour and new experiences, to accept 
the escort of a strange man at midnight if 
he was too drunk to recognise her after- 
ward?’’ Yet a man in the same circum- 
stances would not hesitate to put an in- 
toxicated woman into a sea-going cab, 
and would plume himself for a year and a 
day upon his virtuous performance. 

All things are considered proper for a 


Women's Clothes in fl&en’s Books 

301 

man who is about to write a book. Like 
the disciple of Mary McLane who stole a 
horse in order to get the emotions of a 
police court, he may delve deeply not only 
into life, but into that under-stratum which 
is not spoken of, where respectable journals 
circulate. 

Everything is fish that comes into his 
net. If conscientious, he may even under- 
take marriage in order to study the fem- 
inine personal equations at close range. 
Woman's emotions, singly and collectively, 
are pilloried before his scientific gaze. 
He cowers before one problem, and one 
only — woman's clothes! 

Carlyle, after long and painful thought, 
arrives at the conclusion that “cut be- 
tokens intellect and talent; colour reveals 
temper and heart." 

This reminds one of the language of 
flowers, and the directions given for 
postage-stamp flirtation. If that massive 
mind had penetrated further into the 
mysteries of the subject, we might have 
been told that a turnover collar indicated 

WHomcn's 

Clothes 

in 

flften's 

Soofcs 


302 

ftbreabs of ©res anb <Bolb 

TXlomen’s 

Clothe* 

in 

ttocn*a 

SSooft* 

that the woman was a High Church Epis- 
copalian who had embroidered two altar 
cloths, and that su£de gloves show a 
yielding but contradictory nature. 

Clothes are, undoubtedly, indices of 
character and taste, as well as a sop to 
conventionality, but this only when one 
has the wherewithal to browse at will in 
the department store. Many a woman 
with ermine tastes has only a rabbit -fur 
pocket-book, and thus her clothes wrong 
her in the sight of gods and women, though 
men know nothing about it. 

Once upon a time there was a notion to 
the effect that women dressed to please men, 
but that idea has long since been relegated 
to the limbo of forgotten things. 

Not one man in a thousand can tell the 
difference between Brussels point at thirty 
dollars a yard, and imitation Valenciennes 
at ten or fifteen cents a yard which was 
one of the “famous Friday features in the 
busy bargain basement. ” 

But across the room, yea, even from 
across the street, the eagle eye of another 


Momen’a Clothes tn flBen’s Books 

303 

woman can unerringly locate the Brussels 
point and the mock Valenciennes. 

A man knows silk by the sound of it and 
diamonds by the shine. He will say that 
his heroine 4 ‘was richly dressed in silk.” 
Little does he wot of the difference be- 
tween taffeta at eighty-five cents a yard 
and broadcloth at four dollars. Still less 

does he know that a white cotton shirt- 
waist represents financial ease, and a silk 
waist of festive colouring represents pov- 
erty, since it takes but two days to “do 
up” a white shirt waist in one sense, and 
thirty or forty cents to do it up in the 
other ! 

One listens with wicked delight to men’s 
discourse upon woman’s clothes. Now 
and then a man will express his preference 
for a tailored gown, as being eminently 
simple and satisfactory. Unless he is 
married and has seen the bills for tailored 
gowns, he also thinks they are inexpensive. 

It is the benedict, wise with the acquired 
knowledge of the serpent, who begs his 
wife to get a new party gown and let the 

THHomen's 

Clotbes 

tn 

asoo&s 


304 

HbreaDs of ©res and ©olD 

TKHomen'0 

Clothes 

in 

flDen'a 

JBoofcs 

tailor-made go until next season. He 
also knows that when the material is 
bought, the expense has scarcely begun, 
whereas the ignorant bachelor thinks that 
the worst is happily over. 

In A Little Journey through the World 
Mr. Warner philosophised thus: “How a 
woman in a crisis hesitates before her 
wardrobe, and at last chooses just what 
will express her innermost feelings!” 

If all a woman’s feelings were to be 
expressed by her clothes, the benedicts 
would immediately encounter financial 
shipwreck. On account of the lament- 
able scarcity of money and closets, one is 
eternally adjusting the emotion to the gown. 

Some gown, seen at the exact psychologi- 
cal moment, fixes forever in a man’s mind 
his ideal garment. Thus we read of blue 
calico, of pink-and- white print, and more 
often still, of white lawn. Mad colour 
combinations run riot in the masculine 
fancy, as in the case of a man who boldly 
described his favourite costume as “red, 
with black ruffles down the front!” 


XttHomen’s Glotbes in /Ren’s Books 

305 

Of a hat, a man may be a surpassingly 
fine critic, since he recks not of style. 
Guileful is the woman who leads her liege 
to the millinery and lets him choose, tak- 
ing no heed of the price and the attendant 
shock until later. 

A normal man is anxious that his wife 

shall be well dressed because it shows the 
critical observer that his business is a great 
success. After futile explorations in the 
labyrinth, he concerns himself simply with 
the fit, preferring always that the clothes 
of his heart’s dearest shall cling to her as 
lovingly as a kid glove, regardless of the 
pouches and fulnesses prescribed by Dame 
Fashion. 

In the writing of books, men are at their 
wits’ end when it comes to women’s clothes. 
They are hampered by no restrictions — 
no thought of style or period enters into 
their calculations, and unless they have 
a wholesome fear of the unknown theme, 
they produce results which further inter- 
national gaiety. 

Many an outrageous garment has been 

Women's 

Clotbes 

in 

flben's 

JBoofts 


306 

GbreaDs of ©r eg anO ©ott> 

TOomen'i 

Clotbea 

in 

flDen'f 

®oo&* 

embalmed in a man’s book, simply because 
an attractive woman once wore something 
like it when she fed the novelist. Un- 
balanced by the joy of the situation, he 
did not accurately observe the garb of the 
ministering angel, and hence we read of 
“a clinging white gown” in the days of 
stiff silks and rampant crinoline; of 1 ‘the 
curve of the upper arm” when it took five 
yards for a pair of sleeves, and of “short 
walking skirts” during the reign of bustles 
and trains ! 

In The Blazed Trail, Mr. White observes 
that his heroine was clad in brown which 
fitted her slender figure perfectly. As 
Hilda had yellow hair, “like com silk,” 
this was all right, and if the brown was of 
the proper golden shade, she was doubtless 
stunning when Thorpe first saw her in the 
forest. But the gown could not have 
fitted her as the sheath encases the dagger, 
for before the straight-front corsets there 
were the big sleeves, and still further back 
were bustles and bouffant draperies. One 
does not get the impression that The 



Women’s Clothes in flDen’e Books 

307 

Blazed Trail was placed in the days of 
crinolines, but doubtless Hilda's clothes 
did not fit as Mr. White seems to think 
they did. 

That strenuous follower of millinery, Mr. 
Gibson, might give lessons to his friend, 
Mr. Davis, with advantage to the writer, if 
not to the artist. In Captain Macklin , 
the young man's cousin makes her first 
appearance in a thin gown, and a white 
hat trimmed with roses, reminding the ad- 
venturous captain of a Dresden statuette, 
in spite of the fact that she wore heavy- 
gauntlet gloves and carried a trowel. 
The lady had been doing a hard day's 
work in the garden. No woman outside 
the asylum ever did gardening in such a 
costume, and Mr. Davis evidently has the 
hat and gown sadly mixed with some other 
pleasant impression. 

The feminine reader immediately hides 
Mr. Davis' mistake with the broad mantle 
of charity, and in her own mind clothes 
Beatrice properly in a short walking skirt, 
heavy shoes, shirtwaist, old hat tied down 

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over the ears with a rumpled ribbon, and a 
pair of ancient masculine gloves, long since 
discarded by their rightful owner. Thus 
does lovely woman garden, except on the 
stage and in men’s books. 

In The Story of Eva , Mr. Payne an- 
nounces that Eva climbed out of a cab in 
“a fawn-coloured jacket,” conspicuous by 
reason of its newness, and a hat “with an 
owl’s head upon it!” 

The jacket was possibly a coat of tan 
covert cloth with strapped seams, but it is 
the startling climax which claims atten- 
tion. An owl! Surely not, Mr. Payne! 
It may have been a parrot, for once upon 
a time, before the Audubon Society met 
with widespread recognition, women wore 
such things, and at afternoon teas where 
many fair ones were gathered together 
the parrot garniture was not without 
significance. But an owl’s face, with its 
glaring glassy eyes, is too much like a 
pussy cat’s to be appropriate, and one 
could not wear it at the back without 
conveying an unpleasant impression of 


Momen’s Clotbes in /Ken’s JBoofes 

309 

two-facedness, if the coined word be per- 
missible. 

Still the owl is no worse than the trim- 
ming suggested by a funny paper. The 
tears of mirth come yet at the picture of a 
hat of rough straw, shaped like a nest, on 
which sat a full-fledged Plymouth Rock 
hen, with her neck proudly, yet graciously 
curved. Perhaps Mr. Payne saw the 
picture and forthwith decided to do some- 
thing in the same line, but there is a 
singular inappropriateness in placing the 
bird of Minerva upon the head of poor 
Eva, who made the old, old bargain in 
which she had everything to lose, and 
nothing save the bitterest experience to 
gain. A stuffed kitten, so young and 
innocent that its eyes were still blue and 
bleary, would have been more appropriate 
on Eva’s bonnet, and just as pretty. 

In The Fortunes of Oliver Horn , Margaret 
Grant wears a particularly striking cdstume : 

“ The cloth skirt came to her ankles, 
which were covered with yarn stockings, 
and her feet were encased in shoes that gave 

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him the shivers, the soles being as thick as 
his own and the leather as tough. 

“ Her blouse was of grey flannel, belted to 
the waist by a cotton saddle-girth, white and 
red, and as broad as her hand. The tam-o- 
shanter was coarse and rough, evidently 
home-made, and not at all like McFudd’s, 
which was as soft as the back of a kitten and 
without a seam.” 

With all due respect to Mr. Smith, one 
must insist that Margaret’s shoes were all 
right as regards material and build. She 
would have been more comfortable if they 
had been 44 high-necked” shoes, and, in 
that case, the yam hosiery would not have 
troubled him, but that is a minor detail. 
The quibble comes at the belt, and know- 
ing that Margaret was an artist, we must 
be sure that Mr. Smith was mistaken. It 
may have been one of the woven cotton 
belts, not more than two inches wide, 
which, for a dizzy moment, were at the 
height of fashion, and then tottered and 
fell, but a 4 ‘saddle-girth” — never! 

In that charming morceau, The Inn of 
the Silver Moon , Mr. Viele puts his heroine 



Momen’a Clotbes fit flDen’s $oofc« 

3ii 

into plaid stockings and green knicker- 
bockers — an outrageous costume truly, 
even for wheeling. 

As if recognising his error, and, with 
veritable masculine stubbornness, re- 
fusing to admit it, Mr. Viele goes on to 
say that the knickerbockers were “ tailor- 
made!” And thereby he makes a bad 
matter very much worse. 

In The Wings of the Morning , Iris, in 
spite of the storm through which the 
Sirdar vainly attempts to make its way, 
appears throughout in a “lawn dress'’ — 
white, undoubtedly, since all sorts and 
conditions of men profess to admire white 
lawn! 

How cold the poor girl must have been ! 
And even if she could have been so in- 
appropriately gowned on shipboard, she 
had plenty of time to put on a warm and 
suitable tailor-made gown before she was 
shipwrecked. This is sheer fatuity, for 
any one with Mr. Tracy’s abundant 
ingenuity could easily have contrived ruin 
for the tailored gown in time for Iris to 

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assume masculine garb and participate 
bravely in that fearful fight on the ledge. 

Whence, oh whence, comes this fond- 
ness for lawn? Are not organdies, dimi- 
ties, and embroidered muslins fully as 
becoming to the women who trip daintily 
through the pages of men’s books? Lawn 
has been a back number for many a weary 
moon, and still we read of it! 

“When in doubt, lead trumps,” might 
well be paraphrased thus : ‘ ‘ When in 
doubt, put her into white lawn!” Even 
“ J. P. M.,” that gentle spirit to whom so 
many hidden things were revealed, sent 
his shrewish “Kate” off for a canter 
through the woods in a white gown, and, 
if memory serves, it was lawn ! 

In The Master , Mr. Zangwill describes 
Eleanor Wynd wood as “the radiant appari- 
tion of a beautiful woman in a shimmering 
amber gown, from which her shoulders rose 
dazzling.” 

So far so good. But a page or two 
farther on, that delightful minx, Olive 
Regan, wears “a dress of soft green-blue 



Moinen’s Clothes In flDcn’s JBoofts 

3i3 

cut high, with yellow roses at the throat. ” 
One wonders whether Mr. Zangwill ever 
really saw a woman in any kind of a gown 
“with yellow roses at the throat,” or 
whether it is but the slip of an overstrained 
fancy. The fact that he has married since 
writing this gives a goodly assurance that 
by this time. he knows considerably more 
about gowns. 

Still there is always a chance that the 
charm may not work, for Mr. Arthur 
Stringer, who has been reported as being 
married to a very lovely woman, takes 
astonishing liberties in The Silver Poppy : 

“ She floated in before Reppellier, buoyant, 
smiling, like a breath of open morning itself, 
a confusion of mellow autumnal colours in 
her wine-coloured gown, and a hat of roses 
and mottled leaves. 

“ Before she had as much as drawn off her 
gloves — and they were always the most spot- 
less of white gloves — she glanced about in 
mock dismay, and saw that the last of the 
righting up had already been done.” 

Later, we read that the artist pinned an 
American Beauty upon her gown, then 

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shook his head over the colour combina- 
tion and took it off. If the American 
Beauty jarred enough for a man to notice 
it, the dress must have been the colour 
of claret, or Burgundy, rather than the 
clear soft gold of sauteme. 

This brings us up with a short turn 
before the hat. What colour were the 
roses? Surely they were not American 
Beauties, and they could not have been 
pink. Yellow roses would have been a 
fright, so they must have been white ones, 
and a hat covered with white roses is 
altogether too festive to wear in the 
morning. The white gloves also would 
have been sadly out of place. 

What a comfort it would be to all 

concerned if the feminine reader could 
take poor Cordelia one side and fix her 
up a bit ! One could pat the artistic 
disorder out of her beautiful yellow hair, 
help her out of her hideous clothes into a 
grey tailor-made, with a shirt waist of 
mercerised white cheviot, put on a stock 
of the same material, give her a “ ready- 



Momen’s Clothes In /ICen’a JBooks 

315 

to- wear” hat of the same trig- tailored 
quality, and, as she passed out, hand her 
a pair of grey suede gloves which exactly 
matched her gown. 

Though grey would be more becoming, 
she might wear tan as a concession to Mr. 
Stringer, who evidently likes yellow. 

In the same book, we find a woman who 
gathers up her “yellow skirts” and goes 
down a ladder. It might have been only a 
yellow taffeta drop-skirt under tan etamine, 
but we must take his word for it, as we did 
not see it and he did. 

As the Chinese keep the rat tails for 
the end of the feast, the worst clothes to 
be found in any book must come last by 
way of climax. Mr. Dixon, in The Leo- 
pard's Spots , has easily outdone every 
other knight of the pen who has entered 
the lists to portray women’s clothes. 
Listen to the inspired description of Miss 
Sallie’s gown ! 

“ She was dressed in a morning gown of a 
soft red material, trimmed with old cream 
lace. The material of a woman’s dress had 

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never interested him before. He knew calico 
from silk, but beyond that he never ven- 
tured an opinion. To colour alone he was 
responsive. This combination of red and 
creamy white, with the bodice cut low , showing 
the lines of her beautiful white shoulders , and 
the great mass of dark hair rising in graceful 
curves from her full round neck, heightened 
her beauty to an extraordinary degree. 

“ As she walked, the clinging folds of her 
dress, outlining her queenly figure, seemed 
part of her very being, and to be imbued 
with her soul. He was dazzled with the new 
revelation of her power over him.” 

The fact that she goes for a ride later 
on, “dressed in pure white,’ 1 sinks into 
insignificance beside this new and original 
creation of Mr. Dixon’s. A red morning 
gown, trimmed with cream lace, cut low 
enough to show the “beautiful white 
shoulders” — ye gods and little fishes! 
Where were the authorities, and why was 
not “Miss Sallie” taken to the detention 
hospital, pending an inquiry into her 
sanity? 

It would seem that any man, especially 
one who writes books, could be sure of a 



Women’s Clothes In flDen’s Koofes 

3i7 

number of women friends. Among these 
there ought to be at least one whom he 
could take into his confidence. The gen- 
tleman novelist might go to the chosen 
one and say: “My heroine, in moderate 
circumstances, is going to the matinee 
with a girl friend. What shall she wear?” 

Instantly the discerning woman would 
ask the colour of her eyes and hair, and 
the name of the town she lived in, then 
behold! 

Upon the writer’s page would come a 
radiant feminine vision, clothed in her 
right mind and in proper clothes, to the 
joy of every woman who reads the book. 

But men are proverbially chary of their 
confidence, except when they are in love, 
and being in love is supposed to put even 
book women out of a man’s head. Per- 
haps in the new Schools of Journalism 
which are to be inaugurated, there will be 
supplementary courses in millinery elec- 
tive, for those who wish to learn the trade 
of novel writing. 

If a man knows no woman to whom he 

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can turn for counsel and advice at the 
critical point in his book, there are only- 
two courses open to him, aside from the 
doubtful one of evasion. He may let his 
fancy run riot and put his heroine into 
clothes that would give even a dumb 
woman hysterics, or he may follow the 
example of Mr. Chatfield-Taylor, who 
says of one of his heroines that “her pliant 
body was enshrouded in white muslin with 
a blue ribbon at the waist. ” 

Lacking the faithful hench- woman who 
would gladly put them straight, the ma- 
jority of gentlemen novelists evade the 
point, and, so far as clothes are concerned, 
their heroines are as badly off as the 
Queen of Spain was said to be for legs. 

They delve freely into emotional situa- 
tions, and fearlessly attempt profound 
psychological problems, but slide off like 
frightened crabs when they strike the 
clothesline. 

After all, it may be just as well, since 
fashion is transient and colours and ma- 
terial do not vary much. Still, judging by 



Momen’s Clotbes in /Ben’s iBooks 

319 

the painful mistakes that many of them 
have made, the best advice that one can 
give the gallant company of literary crafts- 
men is this: “When you come to millinery, 
crawfish!’* 

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/Datoens 
of tbe Sea 

• 

fIDatoens of tbe Sea 

CAR out in the ocean, deep and blue, 

1 Where the winds dance wild and free, 

In coral caves, dwells a beautiful band — 

The maidens of the sea. 

There are stories old, of the mystic tide, 

And legends strange, of the deep, 

How the witching sound of the siren's song 

Can lull the tempest to sleep. 

When moonlight falls on a crystal sea, 

When the clouds have backward rolled, 

The mermaids sing their low sweet songs, 

And their harp strings are of gold. 

The billows come from the vast unknown — 
From their far-away unseen home; 

The waves bring shells to the sandy bar, 

And the fairies dance on the foam. 




321 

She {Technique of the Short Storp 

A N old rule for those who would be well- 
^ dressed says: “When you have fin- 
ished, go to the mirror and see what you 
can take off . 99 The same rule applies with 
equal force to the short story: “When you 
have written it out, go over it carefully, 
and see what you can take out. ” 

Besides being the best preparation for 
the writing of novels, short-story writing 
is undoubtedly, at the present time, the 
best paying and most satisfactory form of 
any ephemeral literary work. The quali- 
ties which make it successful are to be 
attained only by constant and patient 
practice. The real work of writing a 
story may be brief, but years of prepara- 
tion must be worked through before a 
manuscript, which may be written in an 
hour or so, can present an artistic result. 

{The 

{Technique 
of the 
Short 
Storu 


322 

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The first and most important thing to 
consider is the central idea. There are 
only a few ideas in the world, but their 
ramifications are countless, and one need 
never despair of a theme. Your story 
may be one of either failure or success, 
but it must have the true ring. Given the 
man and the circumstances, we should 
know his action. 

The plot must unfold naturally; other- 
wise it will be a succession of distinct 
sensations, rather than a complete and 
harmonious whole. 

There is no better way to produce this 
effect than to follow Edmund Russell's 
rule of colour in dress : “When a contrasting 
colour is introduced, there should be at 
least two subordinate repetitions of it. ” 

Each character should appear, or be 
spoken of, at least twice before his main 
action. Following this rule makes one 
of the differences between artistic and 

sensational literature. 

The heroine of a dime novel always finds 
a hero to rescue her in the nick of time, 


^Technique of tbe Sbott Ston? 

323 

and perhaps she never sees him again. 
In the artistic novel, while the heroine may- 
see the rescuer first at the time she needs 
him most, he never disappears altogether 
from the story. 

Description is a thing which is much 
abused. There is no truer indication of 
an inexperienced hand than a story be- 
ginning with a description of a landscape 
which is not necessary to the plot. If the 
peculiarities of the scenery must be under- 
stood before the idea can be developed, the 
briefest possible description is not out of 
place. Subjectively, a touch of landscape 
or weather is allowable, but it must be 
purely incidental. Weather is a very com- 
mon thing and is apt to be uninteresting. 

It is a mistake to tell anything yourself 
which the people in the story could inform 
the reader without your assistance. A 
conversation between two people will 
bring out all the facts necessary as well as 
two pages of narration by the author. 

There is a way also of telling things 
from the point of view of the persons 

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Stor$ 


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which they concern. Those who have 
studied Latin will find the “indirect dis- 
course ” of Cicero a useful model. 

The people in the story can tell their 
own peculiarities better than the author 
can do it for them. It is not necessary 
to say that a woman is a snarling, grumpy 
person. Bring the old lady in, and let her 
snarl, if she is in your story at all. 

The choice of words is not lightly to be 
considered. Never use two adjectives 
where one will do, or a weak word where a 
stronger one is possible. Fallows’ 1 00,000 
Synonyms and Antonyms and Roget's 
Thesaurus of Words and Phrases will prove 
invaluable to those who wish to improve 
themselves in this respect. 

Analysis of sentences which seem to you 
particularly strong is a good way to 
strengthen your vocabulary. Take, for 
instance, the oft-quoted expression of 
George Eliot’s: “Inclination snatches 
argument to make indulgence seem judi- 
cious choice.” Substitute “takes” for 
“snatches” and read the sentence again. 


Uecbnfque of tbe Sbort Storg 

325 

Leave out “seem” and put “ appear” in its 
place. “Proper” is a synonym for “ judi- 
cious”; substitute it, and put “ selection” 
in the place of “choice. ” 

Reading the sentence again we have: 
“Inclination takes argument to make 
indulgence appear proper selection.” The 
strength is wholly gone although the 
meaning is unchanged. 

Find out what you want to say, and then 
say it, in the most direct English at your 
command. One of the best models of 
concise expressions of thought is to be 
found in the essays of Emerson. He com- 
presses a whole world into a single sentence, 
and a system of philosophy into an epigram. 

“Literary impressionism,” which is 
largely the use of onomatopoetic words, is 
a valuable factor in the artistic short story. 
It is possible to convey the impression of a 
threatening sky and a stormy sea without 
doing more than alluding to the crash of 
the surf against the shore. The mind of 
the reader accustomed to subtle touches 
will at once picture the rest. 

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An element of strength is added also by 
occasionally referring an impression to 
another sense. For instance, the news- 
paper poet writes: “The street was white 
with snow,” and makes his line common- 
place doggerel. Tennyson says: “The 
streets were dumb with snow,” and his line 
is poetry. 

“Blackening the background” is a com- 
mon fault with story writers. In many 
of the Italian operas, everybody who does 
not appear in the final scene is killed off 
in the middle of the last act. This whole- 
sale slaughter is useless as well as inartistic. 
The true artist does not, in order that his 
central figure may stand out prominently, 
make his background a solid wall of gloom. 
Yet gloom has its proper place, as well as 
joy. 

In the old tragedies of the Greeks, just 
before the final catastrophe, the chorus is 
supposed to advance to the centre of the 
theatre and sing a bacchanal of frensied 
exultation. 

In the Antigone of Sophocles, just before 



XEecbnique of tbe Sbort Stocp 

327 

the death of Antigone and her lover, the 
chorus sings an ode which makes one won- 
der at its extravagant expression. When 
the catastrophe occurs, the mystery is 
explained. Sophocles meant the sacri- 
fice of Antigone to come home with its 
full force; and well he attained his end 
by use of an artistic method which few of 
our writers are subtle enough to recognise 
and claim for their own purposes. 

“High-sounding sentences/’ which an 
inexperienced writer is apt to put into the 
mouths of his people, only make them 
appear ridiculous. The schoolgirl in the 
story is too apt to say: “The day has been 
most unpleasant,” whereas the real school- 
girl throws her books down with a bang, 
and declares that she has “had a perfectly 
horrid time!” 

Her grammar may be incorrect, but her 
method of expression is true to life, and 
there the business of the writer ends. 

Put yourself in your hero’s place and 
see what you would do under similar cir- 
cumstances. If you were in love with a 

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of tbe 
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young woman, you would n’t get down on 
your knees, and swear by all that was 
holy that you would die if she did n’t 
marry you, at the same time tearing your 
hair out by handfuls, and then endeavour 
to give her a concise biography of your- 
self. 

You would put your arm around her, 
the first minute you had her to yourself, if 
you felt reasonably sure that she cared for 
you, and tell her what she meant to you — 
perhaps so low that even the author of the 
story could n’t hear what you said, and 
would have to describe w r hat he saw 
afterward in order to let his reader guess 
what had really happened. 

It is a lamentable fact that the descrip- 
tion of a person’s features gives absolutely 
no idea of his appearance. It is better to 
give a touch or two, and let the imagina- 
tion do the rest. “Hair like raven’s 
wing,” and the “midnight eyes,” and many 
similar things, may be very well spared. 
The personal charms of the lover may be 
brought out through the mediations of 


^Technique of tbe Sbort Storg 

329 

the lovee, much better than by pages of 
description. 

The law of compensation must always 
have its place in the artistic story. Those 
who do wrong must suffer wrong — those 
who work must be rewarded, if not in the 
tangible things they seek, at least in the 
conscious strength that comes from strug- 
gling. And * 1 poetic j ustice, ’ ’ which metes 
out to those who do the things that they 
have done, is relentless and eternal, in art, 
as well as in life. 

“ Style” is purely an individual matter, 
and, if it is anything at all, it is the expres- 
sion of one’s self. Zola has said that, 
“art is nature seen through the medium of 
a temperament,” and the same is true of 
literature. Bunner’s stories are as thor- 
oughly Bunner as the man who wrote 
them, and The Badge of Courage , is nothing 
unless it be the moody, sensitive, half- 
morbid Stephen Crane. 

Observation of things nearest at hand 
and the sympathetic understanding of 
people are the first requisites. Do not 

Zbc 

TTecbmque 
of tbe 
Sbort 
Ston2 


330 

ttbrea&s of ©res an& ©olt> 

Zbe 

Uecbnigue 
of tbc 
Short 
Store 

place the scene of a story in Europe if you 
have never been there, and do not assume 
to comprehend the inner life of a Congress- 
man if you have never seen one. Do not 
write of mining camps if you have never 
seen a mountain, or of society if you have 
never worn evening dress. 

James Whitcomb Riley has made him- 
self loved and honoured by writing of 
the simple things of home, and Louisa 
Alcott’s name is a household word because 

she wrote of the little women whom she 
knew. Eugene Field has written of the 
children that he loved and understood, 
and won a truer fame than if he had 
undertaken The Master of Zangwill. 
Kipling’s life in India has given us Plain 
Tales from the Hills and The Jungle Book , 
which Mary E. Wilkins could not have 
written in spite of the genius which 
made her New England stories the most 
effective of their kind. Joel Chandler 
Harris could not have written The Pris- 
oner of Zenda , but those of us who have 
enjoyed the wiles of that “monstus 


technique of tbe Sbort Storg 

33i 

soon beast, Brer Rabbit/ * would not 
have it otherwise. 

You cannot write of love unless you 
have loved, of suffering unless you have 
suffered, or of death unless some one who 
was near to you has learned the heavenly 
secret. A little touch of each must teach 
you the full meaning of the great thing 
you mean to write about, or your work 
will be lacking. There are few of us to 
whom the great experiences do not come 
sooner or later, and, in the meantime, there 
are the little everyday happenings, which 
are full of sweetness and help, if they are 
only seen properly, to last until the great 
things come to test our utmost strength, 
to crush us if we are not strong, and to 
make us broader, better men and women 
if we withstand the blow. 

And lastly, remember this, that merit 
is invariably recognised. If your stories 
are worth printing, they will fight their 
way through “the abundance of material 
on hand. ” The light of the public square 

Ube 

'Cecbnfquc 
of tbe 
Sbort 
Stor* 


332 

XTbreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

Ubc 

Uecbnique 
of tbe 
Short 
Storf 

is the unfailing test, and a good story is 
sure to be published sooner or later, if a 
fair amount of literary instinct is exercised 
in sending it out. Meteoric success is not 
desirable. Slow, hard, conscientious work 
will surely win its way, and those who are 
now near the bottom of the ladder are 
gradually ascending to make room for the 
next generation of story-writers on the 
rounds below. 



333 

Co ©orotbp 

HPHERE ’S a sleepy look in your violet eyes, 

1 So the sails of our ship we ’ll unfurl, 

And turn the prow to the Land of Rest, 

My dear little Dorothy girl. 

Twilight is coming soon, little one, 

The sheep have gone to the fold ; 

See ! where our white sails bend and dip 

In the sunset glow of gold. 

The roses nod to the sound of the waves, 

And the bluebells sweet are ringing; 

Do you hear the music, Dorothy dear? 

The song that the angels are singing? 

The fairies shall weave their drowsy spell 

On the shadowy shore of the stream; 

Dear little voyager say “good-night,” 

For the birds are beginning to dream. 

0 white little craft, with sails full spread, 
My heart goes out with thee; 

God keep thee strong with thy precious 
freight, 

My Dorothy — out at sea. 

Co 

©orotb* 


334 


tdriting 
a Book 

Writing a Book 

TTAVING written a few small books 

A A which have been published by a 
reputable house, and which have been 
pleasantly received by both the press and 
the public, and having just completed 
another which I devoutly pray may meet 
the same fate, I feel that I may henceforth 
deem myself an author. 

I have been considered such for some 
time among my numerous acquaintances 
ever since I made my literary bow with a 
short story in a literary magazine, years 
and years ago. Being of the feminine 
persuasion, I am usually presented to 
strangers as “an authoress.” It is at 
these times that I wish I were a man. 

The social side of authorship is extremely 
interesting. At least once a week, I am 
asked how I “came to write.” 



Melting a Boot? 

335 

This is difficult, for I do not know. 
When I so reply, my questioner ascer- 
tains by further inquiries where I was 
educated and how I have been trained. 
Never having been through a “School 
of Journalism, " my answer is not sat- 
isfactory. 

“You must read a great deal in order to 
get all those ideas," is frequently said to 
me. I reply that I do read a great deal, 
being naturally bookish, but that it is 
the great object of my life to avoid get- 
ting ideas from books. To an author, 
“Plagiarist" is like the old cry of “Wolf, ” 
and when an idea is once assimilated it 
is difficult indeed to distinguish it from 
one’s own. 

I am often asked how long it takes me 
to write a book. I am ashamed to tell, 
but sometimes the secret escapes, since I 
am naturally truthful, and find it hard to 
parry a direct question. The actual time 
of composition is always greeted with 
astonishment, and I can read the ques- 
tioner’s inference, that if I can do so much 

unrttfnfl 
a JBcoft 


33<> 

Ttbrea&s of (Bees an& <BoIb 

THl citing 
a £oofe 

in so short a time, how much could I do 
if I actually worked ! 

This is always distasteful, so I hasten 
to add that the composition is really a 
very small part of the real writing of a 
book, and that authors’ methods differ. 
My own practice is not to begin to write 
until my material is fully arranged in my 
mind, and I often use notes which I have 
been making for a period of months. 
Such a report is seldom convincing, how- 
ever, to my questioners. I am gradually 
learning, when this inquiry comes, to smile 
inscrutably. 

It seems strange to many people that 

I do not work all the time. If I can write 
a short story in two hours and be paid 
thirty dollars for it, I am an idiot indeed if 

I do not write at least three in a day! 
Ninety dollars a day might easily mount 
up into a very comfortable income. 

Still, there are some who understand 
that an author cannot write continuously 
any more than a spider or a silkworm can 
spin all the time. These people ask me 


Writing a Kooft 

337 

when, and where, and how, I get my 
material. 

“Getting material” is supposed to be a 
secret process, and I am thought a gay 
deceiver when I say I make no particular 
effort to get it — that it comes in the daily 
living — like the morning cream ! I am 
then asked if I rely wholly upon “in- 
spiration.” I answer that “inspiration” 
doubtless has its value as well as hard work, 
and that the author who would derive all 
possible benefit from the rare flashes of it 
must have the same command of technique 
that a good workman has of his tools. 

The majority learn with surprise that 
there is more to a book than is self-evident. 
It was once my happy lot to put this fact 
into the understanding of a lady from the 
country. 

With infinite pains I told her of the 
constant study of words, illustrated the 
fine shades of distinction between syno- 
nyms, spoke of the different ways in 
which characters and events might be 
introduced, and of the subordinate repeti- 

TOldting 
a JBoofc 


338 

Ubrea&a of Ores anft <Bott> 

TOWttn<j 
a *oofe 

tion of contrasting themes. She listened 
in breathless wonder, and then turned 
to her daughter: “There, Mame, M she 
said, “I told you there was something 
in it!” 

There is nothing so pathetic as the 
widespread literary ambition among people 
whose future is utterly hopeless. It is 
sad enough for one who has attained a 
small success to see the heights which are 
ever beyond, and it makes one gentle 
indeed to those who come seeking aid. 

One ambitious soul once asked me if I 
would teach her to write. I replied that 

I did not know of any way in which it 
could be taught, but that I would gladly 
help her if I could. She said she had 
absolutely no imagination, and asked me 
if that would make any difference. I told 
her it was certainly an unfortunate cir- 
cumstance and advised her to cultivate 
that quality before she attempted exten- 
sive writing. I suppose she is still doing 
it, for I have not been asked for further 
assistance. 


Writing a Boo ft 

339 

People often inquire what qualities I 
deem essential to literary success. Imag- 
ination is, of course, the first, observation, 
the second, and ambition, perseverance 
and executive ability are indispensable. 
Besides these I would place the sense of 
humour, of proportion, sympathy, insight, 
— indeed, there is nothing admirable in 
human nature which would come amiss 
in the equipment of a writer. 

The necessity for the humourous sense 
was recently brought home to me most 
forcibly. A woman brought me the manu- 
script of a novel which she asked me to 
read. She felt that something was wrong 
with it, but she did not know just what it 
was. She said it needed ‘‘a few little 
touches," she thought, such as my experi- 
ence would have fitted me to give, *and 
she would be grateful, indeed, if I would 
revise it. She added that, owing to the 
connection which I had formed with my 
publishing house, it would be an easy 
matter for me to get it published, and 
she generously offered to divide the royal- 

tmrftliMj 

a Book 


340 

Ttbreabs of (Bceg anO (Bolt) 

TKHtfUn0 
a JSoofe 

ties with me if I would consummate the 
arrangement! 

I began to read the manuscript, and had 
not gone far when I discovered that it 
was indeed rare. The entire family read 
it, or portions of it, with screams of 
laughter, and with tears in their eyes, 
although it was not intended to be a 
funny book at all. To this day, certain 
phrases from that novel will upset any one 
of us, even at a solemn time. 

Of course it was badly written. Char- 
acters appeared, talked for a few pages, 
and were never seen or heard from 
again. 

Long conversations were intruded which 
had no connection with such plot as there 
was. Commonplace descriptions of scen- 
ery, also useless, were frequent. Many 
a time the thread of the story was lost. 
There were no distinguishing traits in any 
one of the characters — they all talked very 
much alike. But the supreme defect was 
the author’s lack of humour. With all 
seriousness, she made her people say and 


Mtiting a S3oofc 

34i 

do things which were absolutely ridiculous 
and not by any means true to life. 

I think I must have an unsuspected bit 
of tact somewhere for I extricated myself 
from the situation, and the woman is 
still my friend. I did not hurt her feelings 
about her book, nor did I send it to my 
publishers with a letter of recommendation. 

I remarked that her central idea was all 
right, which was true, since it was a love 
story, but that it had not been properly 
developed and that she needed to study. 
She thanked me for my counsel and said 
she would rewrite it. I wish it might be 
printed just as it was, however, for it is 
indeed a sodden and mirthless world in 

which we live and move. 

As the editors say on the refusal blanks, 
'‘I am always glad to read manuscripts,” 
although, as a rule, it makes an enemy for 
me if I try to help the author by criticism, 
when only praise was expected or desired. 

Having written some verse which has 
landed in respectable places, I am also 
asked about poetry. Poems written in 

TKlritfng 
a «oofc 


342 

ttbrea&s of Ores anb OolO 

TOrtting 
a Sort 

trochaic metre with the good old rhymes, 
“trees and breeze/’ “light and night,” 
soldered on at the end of the lines, are 
continually brought to me for revision and 
improvement. 

Once, for the benefit of the literary 
aspirant, I brought out my rhyming 
dictionary, but I shall never do it again. 
He looked it over carefully, while I ex- 
plained the advantage for the writer in 
having before him all the available rhymes, 
so that the least common might be 
quickly chosen and the verse made to 
run smoothly. 

“Humph!” he said; “it ’s just the book. 
Anybody can write poetry with one of these 
books!” 

My invaluable thesaurus is chained to 
my desk in order that it may not escape, 
and I frequently have to justify its exist- 
ence when aliens penetrate my den. 

“ It ’s no wonder you can write, ” was said 
to me once. “Here’s all the English 
language right on your desk, and all 
you ’ve got to do is to put it together. ” 


Mrfttno a Booh 

343 

“Yes, ” I answered wickedly, “but it’s 
all in the dictionary too/’ 

Last week I had a rare treat. I met a 
woman who had “never seen a literary 
person before, ’’ and who said “it was quite 
a novelty!” I beamed upon her, for it is 
very nice to be a “novelty,” and after a 
while we became quite confidential. 

“I want you to tell me just how you 
write,” she said, “so ’s I can tell the folks 
at home. I ’m going to buy some of your 
books to give away.” 

Mindful of “royalty to author,” I im- 
mediately became willing to tell anything 

I could. 

“Well, I want to know how you write. 
Do you just sit down and do it?” 

“Yes, I just sit down and do it. ” 

“Do you write any special time?” 

“No, mornings, usually; but any time 
will do. ” 

“What do you write with — a pen or a 
pencil?” 

“Neither, I always use a typewriter.” 

“Why, can you write on a typewriter?” 

Writing 
a ®oofe 


344 

XTbrea&s of <3reg anb ©olb 

HOW tin# 
a JBoofc 

“ Yes, it ’s much easier than a pen, and 
it keeps the ink off your hands. You 
can write with both hands at once, you 
know. ” 

“You have to write it all out with a pen- 
cil, first, don’t you?” 

“No, I just think into the keys.” 

“Would n’t it be easier to write it with 
a pencil first and then copy it?” 

“No, or I ’d do it that way.” 

“ Do you dress any special way when you 
write?” 

“No, only I must be neat and also com- 
fortable. I usually wear a shirt waist 
and take off my collar. Can’t write with 
a collar on, but I must be well groomed 
otherwise. ” 

There was a long silence. The little 
lady was digesting the information which 
she had just received. 

“It seems easy enough,” she said. “I 
should think any one could write. What 
do you do when it is done?” 

“Oh, I go all over it and revise very 
carefully. ” 


Mrttfng a Book 

345 

“Why, do you have to go all over it, 
after it is done?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then it takes you longer than it does 
most people, doesn't it?” 

“I cannot say as to that. Everybody 
revises. ” 

“Why, when I write a letter, if I go over 
it I always scratch out so much that I 
have to do it over. ” 

“That’s the idea, exactly,” I replied. 
“I go over it until there isn’t a thing to 
be scratched out, or a word to be changed.” 

“But you’ve got lots left,” she said, 
enviously. “When I go over a letter 
there ’s hardly anything left. ” 

Innumerable questions followed these, 
but at last she had her curiosity partially 
satisfied and turned away from me. I 
trust, however, that I shall some day meet 
her again, for she too is “a novelty!” 

The mechanical part of a book is a 
source of great wonder to the uninitiated. 
My galley proofs were once passed around 
among the guests at a summer hotel as if 

TKUrftfng 
a ®oofc 


346 

TEbrea&s of <3reg an& Oolb 

TUUdting 
a JBoofc 

they were some new strange animal. 
They did not understand page proofs nor 
plates, nor how I could ever know when it 
was right. 

The cover is frequently commented 
upon as a thing of beauty (which with my 
publishers it always is) , and I am asked if 

I did it. I am always sorry that I do not 
know enough to do covers, so I have to 
explain that an artist does that — that I 
often do not see it until the first copies 
come from the bindery, and that I am of 
such small importance that I am not often 
consulted in relation to the matter — being 
merely the poor worm who wrote the book. 

There are many people who seem to be 
afraid to talk before me lest their pearly 
utterances be transformed into copy. 
Time and time again I have heard this: 
“We must be very careful what we say 
now, or Miss will put us into a book!” 

People are strangely literal. An author 
gets no credit whatever for inventive 
faculty — his characters and stories are 
supposedly real people and real things. 


TOtiting a JBooft 

347 

I am asked how I came to know so much 
about such and such a thing. I once wrote 
a love story with an unhappy ending and it 
was at once assumed that I had been dis- 
appointed in love! 

When my first book came from the press 

I was pointed out at a reception as the 
author of it. The man surveyed me long 
and carefully, then he announced: “ That ’s 
a mistake. That girl never wrote that 
book. She *s too frivolous and empty 
headed!” 

I have tried, until I am discouraged, 
to make people understand that a book 
does not have to be a verity in order to 
be true — that a story must be possible, 
instead of actual, and that actual circum- 
stances may be too unreal for literature. 

There are always people who will ask 
that things, even books, may be written 
especially for them. People often want 
to tell me a story and let me write it up into 
a nice book and divide the royalties with 
them! During a summer at the coast, I 
had endless opportunities to write bio- 

VQUiting 
a Sooft 


348 

fEbreabs of Greg anb Go lb 

HQlriting 
a JSooh 

graphical sketches of the guests at the 
hotel — to write a story and put them all 
into it, or to write something about any- 
thing, that they might have as “a sou- 
venir!” As a matter of fact, there were 
only two people at the hotel who could 
have been of any possible use as copy, and 
one of these was a woman to whom only 
Mr. Stockton could have done justice. 

It was hard to be always good-natured, 
but I lost my temper only once. We stayed 
late into the autumn and were rewarded 
by a magnificent storm. I put on my 
bathing suit and my mackintosh and went 
down to the beach, in the teeth of a north- 
west gale. Little needles of sand were 
blown in my face, and I lost my cap, but it 
was well worth the effort. For over an 
hour we stood on the desolate beach, 
sheltered from the sand by a bath house. 

I had never seen anything so grand — it 
was far beyond words. At last it grew 
dark and I was soaked through and stiff 
with the cold. So I went back to the 
hotel, my soul struck dumb by the might 


.TKHrittnfl a JBooft 

349 

and glory of the sea. My heart was too 
full to speak. The majestic chords were 
still thundering in my ears; that tempest- 
tossed ocean was still before my eyes. On 
my way upstairs I met a woman whom I 
had formerly liked * 

“Oh, Miss , I want you to write me 

a description of that storm!” I brushed 
past her, rudely, I fear, and she caught 
hold of the cape of my mackintosh with 
elephantine playfulness. “You can’t go, ” 
she said coquettishly, “until you promise 
to write me a description of that storm!” 

“ I can’t write it,” I said coldly. “ Please 
let me go. ” 

“You ’ve got to write it,” she returned. 
“I know you can, and I won’t let you go 
until you promise me. ” 

I wrenched myself away from her, white 
with wrath, and got to my room before she 
did, though she was still pursuing me. I 
locked my door and had a hard fight for 
my self-control. From the beach came the 
distant boom of the surf, mingled with the 
liquid melody of the returning breakers. 

a JBoofc 



350 

UbreaOe of ate? ant> ®oU> 

TBDdtin# 

aSort 

Later, just as I had finished dressing for 
dinner, there was a tap at my door. My 
friend (?) stood there beaming. “Have 
you got it done? You know you promised 
to write me a description of that storm!’' 

She remained only three days longer, and 

I stayed away from her as much as possible, 
but occasional meetings were inevitable. 
When the gladsome time of parting came, 
she hung about my neck. 

“ I want you to come and see me, ” she 
said. “You know you haven’t done 
what you said you would. Don’t you 
forget to write me a description of that 
storm!” 

My business arrangements with my 
publishers are seemingly a matter of public 
interest. I am asked how much it costs to 
print a book the size of mine. People are 
surprised to find that I do not pay the 
expenses and that I have n’t the least idea 
of what it costs. 

Then they want to know if the publisher 
buys the book of me. I explain that this 
is sometimes done, but that I myself am 


Mrtttng a Boo ft 

35i 

paid upon the royalty basis, per cent. 

on the list price of every copy sold. This 
seems painfully small to the dear public, 
but it is comparatively easy to demon- 
strate that the royalty on five or six 
thousand copies is quite worth while. 

They shortly come to the conclusion, 
however, that the publishers make more 
money than I do, and that seems to them 
to be very unfair. They suggest that if I 
published it myself, I should make a great 
deal more money! 

It is difficult for them to understand that 
writing books and selling books are two 
very different propositions — that I don’t 
know enough to sell books, and that the 
imprint of a reputable house upon the 
title-page is worth a great deal to any 
author. 

“Well,” a man once said to me, “how 
much did you make out of your book this 
year?” 

I explained that the percentage royalty 
basis was really an equal division of the 
profits, everything considered, and that all 

uarttina 
* *oofe 


352 

Ubrea&s ot Greg anb Gott) 

TKHdtfng 
a JBoofc 

the financial risk was on one side. I 
named my few hundreds, with which I 
was very well satisfied. He absorbed 
himself in a calculation on the back of an 
envelope. 

“I figure out,” said he, at length, “that 
they must have made at least a third more 
than you did. That is n't fair!” 

My ire arose. “It is perfectly fair,” I 
replied. “Paper is cheap, I know, but 
composition is n’t, and advertising is n’t. 
They are welcome to every penny they 
can make out of my books. I ’d be glad 
to have them make twice as much as they 
do now, even if my own income remained 
the same. ” 

At this point, I became telepathically 
aware that I was considered crazy, so I 
changed the subject. 

I am often asked how I happened to 
meet my publishers and “get in with 
them,” and as a very great favour to me, 
and to them, I am offered the privilege of 
sending them some “splendid novel which 
was written by a friend” of somebody — 


marfttng a Boots 

353 

as they know me, “they have decided to 
let my publishers have the book!” 

They are surprised to hear me say that 

I have never met any member of the firm, 
though I was in the same city with them 
for over a year. More than this, there is 
nothing on earth, except a green worm, 
which would scare me so much as a sum- 
mons to that publishing house. 

I have walked by in fear and trembling. 

I have seen a huge pile of my books in the 
window, and on the bulletin board a poster 
which bore my name in conspicuous 
letters, as if I had been cured of something. 
But I should no more dare to go into that 
office than I should venture to call upon 
the wife of the President with a shawl over 
my head, and my fancywork tucked under 
my arm. 

This is incomprehensible to the unin- 
itiated. The publishers have ever been 
most courteous and kind. They are 
people with whom it is a pleasure to have 
any sort of business dealings, but we are 
not bosom friends — and I very much fear 

Writing 
a 3600b 


354 

tCbreabs of ©re? ant> ©oR> 

UJUriting 
a 3Booh 

that they do not care to become chummy 
with me. 

There may be some authors who have 
taken nerve tonics and are not afraid to 
meet an editor or publisher. I have even 
read of some who will walk cheerfully into 
an editorial sanctum — but I Ve never 
seen a sanctum, nor an editor, nor a 
publisher. I don’t even write to an editor 
when I send him a piece — just put in a 
stamp. He usually knows what to do with 
it. 

Fame, or long experience, may enable 
authors to meet the arbiters of then- 
destiny without becoming frightened, but 

I have had brief experience, and still less 
fame. The admirable qualities of the 
pachyderm may have been bestowed upon 
some authors — but not on this one. 



355 

Gbe flfmn Bebinb tbe <5un 


TOW let the eagle flap his wings 

1 >| And let the cannon roar, 

For while the conquering bullet sings 

We pledge the commodore. 

First battle of a righteous war 

Right royally he won, 

But here ’s a health to the jolly tar — 

To the man behind the gun ! 

TIbe flban 
JBebfirt 
tbe $un 

Now praise be to the flag-ship’s spars — 

To the captain in command, 

And honour to the ^tripes and Stars 

For whose defence they stand; 

And for the pilot at his wheel 

Let the streams of red wine run, 

But here ’s a health to the man of steel — 
The man behind the gun ! 


Here ’s to the man who does not swerve 

In the face of any foe ; 

Here ’s to the man of iron nerve, 

On deck and down below; 



356 

flbreabs of ©res anb ©olb 

XTbe /Can 
»ebtn& 
tbe ®un 

Here *s to the man whose heart is glad 

When the battle has begun; 

Here ’s to the health of that daring lad — 

To the man behind the gun ! 

Now let the Stars and Stripes float high 

And let the eagle soar; 

Until the echoes make reply 

We pledge the commodore. 

Here *s to the chief and here ’s to war, 

And here ’s to the fleet that won, 

And here *s a health to the jolly tar — 

To the man behind the gun! 



357 

Quaint ©15 Cbdstmas Customs 

/^^OM PARED with the celebrations of 
our ancestors, the modern Christ- 
mas becomes a very hurried thing. The 
rush of the twentieth century forbids 
twelve days of celebration, or even two. 
Paterfamilias considers himself very in- 
dulgent if he gives two nights and a day 
to the annual festival, because, forsooth, 
“the office needs him!’ , 

One by one the quaint old customs have 
vanished. We still have the Christmas 
tree, evergreens in our houses and churches, 
and the yawning stocking still waits in 
many homes for the good St. Nicholas. 

But what is poor Santa Claus to do 
when the chimney leads to the furnace? 
And what of the city apartment, which 
boasts a radiator and gas grate, but no 
chimney? The myth evidently needs re- 

Quaint 

©15 

Christmas 

Customs 


358 

TTbreabs of ©res anb <Solb 

Quaint 

©to 

Cbrtetmas 

dustoms 

construction to meet the times in which we 
live, and perhaps we shall soon see pictures 
of Santa Claus arriving in an automobile, 
and taking the elevator to the ninth floor, 
flat B, where a single childish stocking is 
hung upon the radiator. 

Nearly all of the Christmas observances 
began in ancient Rome. The primitive 
Italians were wont to celebrate the winter 

solstice and call it the feast of Saturn. 

Thus Saturnalia came to mean almost 
any kind of celebration which came in the 
wake of conquest, and these ceremonies 
being engrafted upon Anglo-Saxon customs 
assumed a religious significance. 

The pretty maid who hesitates and 
blushes beneath the overhanging branch 
of mistletoe, never stops to think of the 
grim festival with which the Druids 
celebrated its gathering. 

In their mythology the plant was 
regarded with the utmost reverence, 
especially when found growing upon 
an oak. 

At the time of the winter solstice, the 


Quaint ©10 Christmas Customs 

359 

ancient Britons, accompanied by their 
priests, the Druids, went out with great 
pomp and rejoicing to gather the mistle- 
toe, which was believed to possess great 
curative powers. These processions were 
usually by night, to the accompaniment 
of flaring torches and the solemn chanting 
of the people. When an oak was reached 
on which the parasite grew, the company 
paused. 

Two white bulls were bound to the tree 
and the chief Druid, clothed in white to 
signify purity, climbed, more or less grace- 
fully, to the plant. It was severed from 
the oak, and another priest, standing below, 
caught it in the folds of his robe. The 
bulls were then sacrificed, and often, alas, 
human victims also. The mistletoe thus 
gathered was divided into small portions 
and distributed among the people. The 
tiny sprays were fastened above the doors 
of the houses, as propitiation to the sylvan 
deities during the cold season. 

These rites were retained throughout 
the Roman occupation of Great Britain, 

Quaint 

’ ©tt> 

Christmas 

Customs 


360 

Ubreabs of ©res ant> ©oIO 

ti&uaint 

<s>u> 

Cbdstmaa 

Customs 

and for some time afterward, under the 
sovereignty of the Jutes, the Saxons, and 
the Angles. 

In Scandinavian mythology there is a 
beautiful legend of the mistletoe. Balder, 
the god of poetry, the son of Odin and 
Friga, one day told his mother that he 
had dreamed his death was near at hand. 
Much alarmed, the mother invoked all the 
powers of nature — earth, air, water, fire, 
animals and plants, and obtained from 
them a solemn oath that they would do 
her son no harm. 

Then Balder fearlessly took his place 
in the combats of the gods and fought 
unharmed while showers of arrows were 
falling all about him. 

His enemy, Loake, determined to dis- 
cover the secret of his invulnerability, and, 
disguising himself as an old woman, went 
to the mother with a question of the reason 
of his immunity. Friga answered that she 
had made a charm and invoked all nature 
to keep from injuring her son. 

“Indeed,” said the old woman, “and 


©ualnt ©lb Christmas Customs 

361 

did you ask all the animals and plants? 
There are so many, it seems impossible.’' 

“All but one,” answered Friga proudly ; 
“all but a little insignificant plant which 
grows upon the bark of the oak. This I 
did not think of invoking, since so small a 
thing could do no harm. ” 

Much delighted, Loake went away and 
gathered mistletoe. Then he entered the 
assembly of the gods and made his way to 
the blind Heda. 

“Why do you not fight with the arrows 
of Balder?” asked Loake. 

“Alas,” replied Heda, “I am blind and 
have no arms. ” 

Loake then gave him an arrow tipped 
with mistletoe and said: “Balder is before 
thee.” Heda shot and Balder fell, pierced 
through the heart. 

In its natural state, the plant is believed 
to be propagated by the missel- thrush, 
which feeds upon its berries, but under 
favourable climatic conditions one may 
raise one’s own mistletoe by bruising the 
berries on the bark of fruit trees, where 

Quaint 

©16 

Christmas 

Customs 


362 

ttbreaOs of ©rep ant> ©olb 

Quaint 

©U> 

Christmas 

Customs 

they take root readily. It must be re- 
membered, however, that the plant is a 
true parasite and will eventually kill 
whatever tree gives it nourishment. 

Kissing under the mistletoe was also a 
custom of the Druids, and in those un- 
civilised days men kissed each other. 
For each kiss, a single white berry was 
plucked from the spray, and kept as a 
souvenir by the one who was kissed. 

The burning of the Yule log was an 
ancient Christmas ceremony borrowed 
from the early Scandinavians. At their 
feast of Juul (pronounced Yuul ), at the 
time of the winter solstice, they were wont 
to kindle huge bonfires in honour of their 
god Thor. The custom soon made its way 
to England where it is still in vogue in 
many parts of the country. 

One may imagine an ancient feudal 
castle, heavily fortified, standing in splen- 
did isolation upon a snowy hill, on that 
night of all others when war was forgotten 
and peace proclaimed. Drawn by six 
horses, the great Yule log was brought into 



©uatnt ©15 Cbrtstmas Customs 

363 

the hall and rolled into the vast fireplace, 
where it was lighted with the charred 
remnants of last year’s Yule log, religiously 
kept in some secure place as a charm 
against fire. 

As the flames seize upon the oak and 
the light gleams from the castle windows, 
a lusty procession of wayfarers passes 
through, each one raising his hat as he 
passes the fire which bums all the evil out 
of the hearts of men, and up to the rafters 
there rings a stern old Saxon chant. 

When the song was finished, the steaming 
wassail bowl was brought out, and all the 
company drank to a better understanding. 

Up to the time of Henry VI, and even 
afterward, the Yule log was greeted with 
bards and minstrelsy. If a squinting 
person came into the hall while the log 
was burning, it was sure to bring bad luck. 
The appearance of a barefooted man was 
worse, and a flat-footed woman was the 
worst of all. 

As an accompaniment to the Yule log, 
a monstrous Christmas candle was burned 

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on the table at supper; even now in St. 
John’s College at Oxford, there is an old 
candle socket of stone, ornamented with 
the figure of a lamb. What generations 
of gay students must have sat around that 
kindly light when Christmas came to 
Oxford! 

Snap-dragon was a favourite Christmas 
sport at this time. Several raisins were 
put into a large shallow bowl and thor- 
oughly saturated with brandy. All other 
lights were extinguished and the brandy 
ignited. By turns each one of the con- 
pany tried to snatch a raisin out of the 
flames, singing meanwhile. 

In Devonshire, they bum great bundles 
of ash sticks, while master and servants 
sit together, for once on terms of perfect 
equality, and drink spiced ale, and the 
season is one of great rejoicing. 

Another custom in Devonshire is for 
the farmer, his family, and friends, to par- 
take of hot cake and cider, and afterward 
go to the orchard and place a cake cere- 
moniously in the fork of a big tree, when 



Quaint ©It» Christmas Customs 

365 

cider is poured over it while the men fire 
off pistols and the women sing. 

A similar libation, but of spiced ale, used 
to be sprinkled through the orchards and 
meadows of Norfolk. Midnight of Christ- 
mas was the time usually chosen for the 
ceremony. 

In Devon and Cornwall, a belief is cur- 
rent that, at midnight on Christmas Eve, 
the cattle kneel in their stalls in honour 
of the Saviour, as legend claims they did in 
Bethiehem. 

In Wales, they carry about at Christmas 
time a horse's skull gaily adorned with 
ribbons, and supported on a pole by a man 
who is wholly concealed by a white cloth. 
There is a clever contrivance for opening 
and shutting the jaws, and this strange 
creature pursues and bites all who come 
near it. 

The figure is usually accompanied by a 
party of men and boys grotesquely dressed, 
who, on reaching a house, sing some verses, 
often extemporaneous, demanding admit- 
tance, and are answered in the same fashion 

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by those within until rhymes have given 
out on one side or the other. 

In Scotland, he who first opens the door 
on Christmas Day expects more good luck 
than will fall to the lot of other members 
of the family during the year, because, as 
the saying goes, he lets in Yule. 

In Germany, Christmas Eve is the 
children’s night, and there is a tree and 
presents. England and America appear 
to have borrowed the Christmas tree from 
Germany, where the custom is ancient 
and very generally followed. 

In the smaller towns and villages in 
northern Germany, the presents are sent 
by all the parents to some one fellow who, 
in high buskins, white robe, mask, and 
flaxen wig, personates the servant, Rupert. 
On Christmas night he goes around to every 
house, and says that his master sent him. 
The parents and older children receive 
him with pomp and reverence, while the 
younger ones are often badly frightened. 

He asks for the children, and then de- 
mands of their parents a report of their 


G&ualnt ®l& Christmas Customs 

367 

conduct during the past year. The good 
children are rewarded with sugar-plums 
and other things, while for the bad ones a 
rod is given to the parents with instruc- 
tions to use it freely during the coming 
year. 

In those parts of Pennsylvania where 
there are many German settlers, the little 
sinners often find birchen rods suggest- 
ively placed in their stockings on Christ- 
mas morning. 

In Poland, the Christmas gifts are hidden, 
and the members of the family search for 
them. 

In Sweden and Norway, the house is 
thoroughly cleaned, and juniper or fir 
branches are spread over the floor. Then 
each member of the family goes in turn to 
the bake house, or outer shed, where he 
takes his annual bath. 

But it is back to Old England, after all, 
that we look for the merriest Christmas. 
For two or three weeks beforehand, men 
and boys of the poorer class, who were 
called “waits,” sang Christmas carols 

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under every window. Until quite recently 
these carols were sung all through England, 
and others of similar import were heard in 
France and Italy. 

The English are said to “take their 
pleasures sadly,” but in the matter of 
Christmas they can “give us cards and 
spades and still win.” Parties of Christ- 
mas drummers used to go around to the 
different houses, grotesquely attired, and 
play all sorts of tricks. The actors were 
chiefly boys, and the parish beadle always 
went along to insure order. 

The Christmas dinner of Old England 
was a thing capable of giving the whole 
nation dyspepsia if they indulged freely. 

The main dish was a boar’s head, roasted 
to a turn, and preceded by trumpets and 
minstrelsy. Mustard was indispensable 
to this dish. 

Next came a peacock, skinned and 
roasted. The beak was gilded, and some- 
times a bit of cotton, well soaked in spirits, 
was put into his mouth, and when he was 
brought to the table this was ignited, so 


(Quaint ©15 Cbristmas Customs 

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that the bird was literally spouting fire. 
He was stuffed with spices, basted with 
yolks of eggs, and served with plenty of 
gravy. 

Geese, capons, pheasants, carps’ tongues, 
frumenty, and mince, or “shred” pies, 
made up the balance of the feast. 

The chief functionary of Christmas was 
called “ The Lord of Misrule. ” 

In the house of king and nobleman he 
held full sway for twelve days. His 
badge was a fool’s bauble and he was 
always attended by a page, both of them 
being masked. So many pranks were 
played, and so much mischief perpetrated 
which was far from being amusing, that 
an edict was eventually issued against 
this form of liberty, not to say license. 

The Lord of Misrule was especially 
reviled by the Puritans, one of whom set 
him down as “a grande captain of mis- 
chief e. ” One may easily imagine that 
this stem old gentleman had been ducked 
by a party of revellers following in the 
wake of the lawless “Captaine” because 

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he had refused to contribute to their 

entertainment. 

We need not lament the passing of Christ- 
mas pageantry, if the spirit of the festival 
remains. Through the centuries that have 
passed since the first Christmas, the spirit 
of it has wandered in and out like a golden 
thread in a dull tapestry, sometimes hidden, 
but never wholly lost. It behooves us to 
keep well and reverently such Christmas as 
we have, else we shall share old Ben Jon- 
son’s lament in The Mask of Father Christ- 
mas , which was presented before the English 
Court nearly two hundred years ago : 

“ Any man or woman . . . that can give 
any knowledge, or tell any tidings of an old, 
very old, grey haired gentleman called Christ- 
mas, who was wont to be a very familiar 
ghest, and visit all sorts of people both pore 
and rich, and used to appear in glittering 
gold, silk and silver in the court, and in all 
shapes in the theatre in Whitehall, and had 
singing, feasts and jolitie in all places, both 
citie and countrie for his coming — whosoever 
can tel what is become of him, or where he 
may be found, let them bring him back again 
into England.” 



37i 

Consecration 

/CATHEDRAL spire and lofty architrave, 
Nor priestly rite and humble reverence, 
Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense 
May give the consecration that we crave; 
Upon the shore where tides forever lave 

With grateful coolness on the fevered sense; 
Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense, 
There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave. 

By rock-hewn altars where is said no word, 
Save by the deep that calleth unto deep, 

While organ tones of sea resound above; 

The truth of truths our inmost souls have 
heard, 

And in our hearts communion wine we keep, 
For He Himself hath said it — “ God is 
Love!” 

Corteecra* 

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